Wild(74)

            “Fuck you!” This fell easily even as the thought flashed through me that my mother would be horrified. Being a lady was right up there with eating your vegetables in my house. It didn’t matter how provoked you were. Staying composed under fire was a true testament to one’s character.

            He smiled, looking both dangerous and excited. “Oh, there she is. The real Georgia.”

            No. I wasn’t this wild thing he made me out to be. He brought out this ugly in me. This beer-tossing, foul-mouthed, hot-for-his-body girl. I shook my head and bit my lip, bewildered. No. This wasn’t me at all. It couldn’t be.

            I headed for my apartment door, tossing over my shoulder, “Why don’t you head back to your little bar groupies?”

            “Jealous?” His hand clamped on my arm, forcing me around.

            “Ha. As if. I don’t care who paws you, Logan. We’re not even friends.”

            “No . . . we’re more than friends. And you know that.”

            I swallowed against the lump in my throat. “No.”

            He took my face in both of his hands then, holding me still as his gaze scoured me like hot coals. “What are you so afraid of?”

            You. Me. How I am with you . . . Us being something more, something real, and then facing the world . . . My mother, enduring her disappointment by becoming all her worst fears.

            Releasing my face, he grabbed my hand and pulled me after him. At the door leading to the loft, I dug in my heels and stepped in front of him. “You don’t get to come up.” My chin lifted in a show of bravado. Courage that was hard to cling to when he looked so furious . . . with the front of his shirt wet with the beer I’d thrown at him.

            “Key.” The single word dropped like a stone between us. He nodded at my bag, that nerve still ticking near his eye.

            I hesitated a moment before moving, my fingers fumbling until I pulled my key out of my bag. He plucked it from my hand and unlocked my door.

            I braced myself, determined not to move until he left. Me and him upstairs? Together as mad as we were? Alone? Yeah, not a good idea. I was so not on board with that.

            Swinging the door open, I didn’t stand a chance though. He ignored my sputtered protest and ushered us inside the stairwell.

            He shut the door with a dull thud and we were engulfed in shadows. I moved up and turned on the third step, determined to go no farther. I would not let him bulldoze over me. This ended here.

            I’d left a lamp on in the loft above and a dim gold light trickled down into the stairwell, gilding the lines and planes of his face. Standing one step above him, we were almost eye-level, and I seized the advantage, letting it embolden me. “You’re not coming up here.” My voice fell loudly, echoing in the tomblike space.

            “Scared of what I’ll do to you?”

            My pulse jackknifed against my throat. His eyes glittered like an animal’s in the shadows of the stairwell. The air was electric, like he would erupt any moment into fire and ash.

            He was still pissed at me, but there was something else in the air, too. Something that brought to mind the hot press of his body pinning me to the bathroom door . . . ordering me not to move my hands from above my head.

            “No one does anything to me,” I countered.

            He laughed almost cruelly. “Your whole life has been others doing things to you. Deciding how your life is going to be. Your parents. Your douche ex.”

            The accusation enraged me. I didn’t want it to be true, but a piece of me buried deep acknowledged that he wasn’t totally wrong.