Wrong Question, Right Answer (The Bourbon Street Boys #3) - Elle Casey Page 0,5
playful smile turns into a frown as he glares at me. “You’re calling Rowdy? Are you completely insane, or what?”
My nostrils flare as I grit my teeth. Lucky is so going to pay for that. I hold out my hand. “Give me my phone right now. I’m not kidding.”
He shakes his head. “Nope. Can’t do that.”
I take a step toward him but he raises the phone above his head. He’s over six feet tall, so even with my heels, I don’t stand a chance unless I bring him to his knees, which is very tempting right now.
“Ah, ah, ahhh . . . keep your distance, girly.”
“If you don’t give me my phone in the next five seconds . . .”
He lifts his brows. “What? You’ll shoot me?”
There is no conscious thought that passes through my mind before I launch my attack. I throw myself at him, screaming my war cry and going right for the eyes.
Unfortunately, he sees me coming and throws my phone so he can capture both of my wrists using only one hand. With the other he pulls me against him.
We both fall backward as one. When his spine hits the wall behind him and he smacks his head on the wood paneling, he hisses out a grunt of pain, but he doesn’t let go.
Our faces are only inches apart. I want to claw him, scratch his eyes out and make him bleed for saying what he said, but I can’t do any of it. He has me in a viselike grip, and I’m too drunk to tap into my real power. The room is spinning and his face is so, so close. I can smell the beer on his breath. It should be disgusting, but it’s not. My heart feels like it’s going to explode, I’m so angry and confused. I have never known him to play so dirty before.
“I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have said that.” His voice is gruff, maybe with regret, but I don’t care. He crossed the line, big time.
“Goddamn right, you shouldn’t have.” I struggle against him, trying to get away, but he’s twice as strong as I am. I bring my knee up, hoping to catch him in the balls, but he senses that coming and turns sideways, taking the hit in his thigh. The strike was hard enough to leave a bruise, but he doesn’t loosen his hold on me.
“I’m just trying to help you . . .” he says through a hiss of pain, “. . . try to stop you from making a big mistake.”
“I don’t need your help, asshole.” I thrust our interlocked arms up at his face, but he stops my attempted punch an inch before it makes contact. I change my mind about his breath; it is gross. Budweiser. Ick.
“Looks like you do need my help. You were about to call Rowdy, the guy who masterminded the plan to kidnap your co-worker but got away without any jail time because he agreed to mental health counseling . . . the guy who still wants to beat your ass or worse. Come on, Toni, you know better.”
I don’t know why his words hurt me so much, but they do. I hate that I’m weak, that I seek the acceptance of the people I work with. It shouldn’t matter to me what they think. I choose my own way, I live my own life, and I don’t answer to anyone. So why do I care what he says?
“Shut up, Lucky. You don’t know me.”
His expression softens, though his grip doesn’t. “I know you better than you think I do.”
I snort and then sneer at him. “Please. You think because you kissed me in junior high you know me?”
Too late I realize I’ve shown him my hand. I should probably just forget about the whole damn thing like he has. It was ten years ago, after all. A lifetime. It doesn’t seem that long, though. Probably because, even after all this time, my heart hasn’t learned to leave the memory alone. Like it or not, that moment with Lucky has carried me through some really hard times. I’ve often dreamed of what could have happened with us and with me if I’d followed through on that emotion with him instead of running to Charlie.
He shakes his head. “I’m not talking about that kiss.” Then he smiles, looking really proud of himself. “But I’m happy to know that you’re still thinking about it.” He tilts his head. “How long