“A what?” He winces, leaning in—obviously feigning confusion.
“You know a night stick wielder, a badge carrying member of the Bay of Pigs, an undercover Private Dick who has it out for a sweet innocent coed like me.”
His lip twitches just this side of a smile, and I can tell he’s silently contesting both my sweetness and innocence. “You think I have it in for you? On what charges should I have you arrested?”
“God, I don’t know, let’s see, a false narcotics charge? Perhaps railroading me into a prostitution indictment? Oh, I know! Get me to the bar and suddenly “misplace” your wallet so that my underage self will volunteer to purchase the both of us a beer, then bam”—he ticks his head back a notch as I blow up in his face—“the bar loses its liquor license within the hour. Face it, Officer Cocks”—I give a quick, totally uncalled for glance to his crotch—“you’ve just been outted.”
“Officer Cocks?” he mouths. He gives a dry huff while darting a quick glance behind his shoulder. “It looks like you’ve thought of everything.” He raises his arms in a mocking fashion. “You’re onto me.”
Annie and Blake come over, and I’m quick to wedge myself protectively between them.
“You’ve met Wyatt.” Annie rubs my back as she and Blake continue to inch their way to the door. In addition to public displays of affection, they like to expand their touchy-feeliness to the home front. Annie and Blake like to spend the night together. A lot. I only know this because Annie is hardly at our dorm anymore. Soon I’ll have to resort to photographs just to remember what she looks like.
“Oh, is that his name? Wyatt?” I extend my hand. “Marley Jackson.” I give a knowing nod toward the con-artist before me. He thinks he’s artfully avoided my question, but I’m about to prove him wrong. “And which precinct should I send the donuts to? You know, to thank you for taking your protective services to unnecessary lengths.”
Annie goes rigid, and Blake looks more amused than shocked. I bet this narc in hiding has been after Blake’s band just hoping to find their faces buried in a big fat pile of blow.
“Precinct?” Blake gives him a sock to the arm. “Dude, if role play is your thing, you really need to clue your opponent in on it. Or else it’s just called a lie.”
Wyatt’s features smooth out. There’s marked irritation in those sharp features of his as his jade eyes narrow in on mine.
“I haven’t lied about a thing.” He blinks a smile my way. “Ms. Jackson here has surmised something I’m not. I believe the word she used was narc.”
Blake laughs so loud I jolt out from between them. He and Annie take a few more eager steps toward the exit.
“That’s Blake’s brother.” Annie waves him off dismissively. “I promise he doesn’t bite.” She scoots the door open with her back.
Blake raises his hand our way. “Trust me, he’s no narc.” He tweaks his brows as if it meant something before he and Annie disappear into the cold night air.
“No narc,” I say it under my breath. “Blake’s brother, huh?” I step in front of him with his wide frame, his defensive lineman shoulders, his dark ridge of a brow and feel that one-night stand urge start up again in the form of a pleasant vibratory pulse between my thighs.
His features fall flat, the once smiling eyes, the once playful tug of his lips let me know I’ve blown it.
“Can we start over?” I jump on my tiptoes causing me to dance a little in my ridiculously high heels. “I’m Marley Jackson.” I jab my hand in his direction. “I write for my school paper, both the online and paper versions. As you can see I have a wild imagination.” Those last few words trickle out almost inaudible. As if this gorgeous man would care about my barely-there faux literary drivel or the twisted mind that conceives them.
Wyatt stands unmoved, leaving my hand to hang cold in the air. His gaze darts down a moment as the slim idea of a smile wavers.
He takes up my hand, warm, thick and firm, giving it a strong shake. God, I haven’t felt a man like this, well, ever. Will had tiny, slender, effeminate hands. His fingers were sort of wiry and thin, but this man, his strong thick fingers—all sorts of perverse thoughts run wild through my brain, and I hang on tight as if I’ve just clasped onto a live electrical wire.
“Wyatt James. Blake and I share a mother.” His smile widens, and, more importantly, warms toward me as if his hardcore demeanor was an act all along. “I’m sorry if I gave you the wrong impression.”