Page 25 of Tate: Gemini King
God, he makes me so fucking angry. How dare he tie me up, leave me overnight and then stalk me, tackle me and kiss me. I want to smack him across the face, but when I look into his eyes, I think that arguing with his dumbass sounds much better.
“Terrorist is an insane name,” I respond to Tate testily, making my best efforts to wriggle out of his increasingly tight grasp. I can’t see over his broad shoulders what Cormac is up to, but judging but our chihuahua’s occasional yapping, he’s doing something interesting. What’s interesting to the dog is likely dangerous to my freedom.
“I already renamed him Timmy,” I tell Tate. “We’re not changing it back.”
Terrorist refuses to respond to his new names, but I don’t want Tate to know that I’m flopping at my new chapter already.
“That’s a bitch ass name,” Tate murmurs, running his tongue over my neck and clearly not listening to me in the slightest. I grunt and shove his broad chest, fighting every biological urge that normally comes up when your hands come into contact with a solid, broad chest. I can’t think about that right now when I have to fight Tate.
“It’s not a bitch ass name. It’s a much better name than Terrorist.”
“It’s a human name,” Tate says, kissing my neck again, even if his friend is standing right there. I push against his body again, ignoring how fucking good his lips feel and focus on arguing with him.
“I thought it was a bitch ass name,” I grunt as Tate puts his hands on my thighs and sends that fucked up shiver straight to my pussy. I can’t get over how much I hate his ass.
“The worst guy on our football team was named Timmy,” Tate says, running his tongue over my neck and sucking on my earlobe. “Cormac fingered his ass once.”
“WHAT?!” I shriek. Apparently, this doesn’t kill the moment for Tate. Or for Cormac’s creepy ass.
“It’s true,” Cormac says calmly. “Terrorist is a much better name.”
I don’t even want to know the context of this and I hate that they both sound extremely calm about this, like butt-fingering is something that goes on in football.
“UGH!” I scream, shoving Tate again since my first effort worked. “Fine, let go of me. Can we just get off the muddy ass ground!”
“Promise he’s still named Terrorist?”
“I PROMISE!” I scream. “NOW RELEASE ME.”
Tate leans back and I scramble to my feet. Terrorist runs straight to me and I scoop him up. I glance over my shoulder, giving Tate that split second advantage to guess my plans. He grabs my forearm sharply, drawing my muddy body towards his and not giving a flying fuck about the dirty puddle water and mud spraying everywhere.
“LET GO OF ME!”
“Cormac,” Tate says calmly, looking at me with a smirk. “Get the gun. Clearly, my roommate is going to be just as much trouble as I thought.”
“ARE YOU CRAZY?” I scream at Tate, clutching Terrorist to my chest as if somehow, the barely-five-pound chihuahua is going to turn into a tactical bulletproof vest. Cormac pulls out a pistol and presses it against my head.
“Unfortunately, ma’am… I might have to kill you if push comes to shove. I have considerably large gambling debts and… well… if Tate needs me to kill you, he’ll have to offer to pay them off.”
I don’t want to turn my head and yell at him in case this crazy small town white boy actually pulls the trigger. I’m sure his fratty ass doesn’t want to spend the rest of his life in prison, gambling debts or not. Also, I’m scared as fuck and trying not to show it. Tate loves this situation entirely too much.
“Great, let’s lead her to the truck before anyone catches us.”
Just my luck that an extremely popular state park is empty as fuck the second I have two crazed white boys dragging me and my pet chihuahua away. Tate can’t make me live in that apartment. Sure, I’m currently living out of my car, which is parked behind a Walmart, because housing is hard to come by. But just because I’m temporarily living in my sedan doesn’t mean I’m desperate for a house.
I just need to find a spell on social media for manifesting that actually works…
Cormac and Tate hold me up at gunpoint while I clutch Terrorist to my chest. I hear Tate’s point. Nothing wrong with getting your ass fingered in private, but I don’t want our puppy associated with some weird guy on their football team. No thank you. Tate sits in the back of the truck with me while Terrorist sits shotgun next to Cormac.
I don’t have the gun pointed at my head anymore, so I feel comfortable glaring at Tate like I want to kill him.
He gives me a smile once Cormac gets the car started.
“You can get the clothes and the rest of your things tomorrow. I’m not letting you sleep on the streets.”
“Who said I was sleeping on the streets?”
I was sleeping in my car, but that’s not the point.