Page 9 of Worth Every Game
Jack Lansen.
My heart does a little pitter-patter, then annoyance sets in. Who does he think he is, bailing on my set this evening and then ordering me into his car?
“I don’t get into cars with arseholes,” I yell.
He moves away from the window and for a second I think he’s going to drive off, but his car door swings open and he spills out into the middle of the road, all six foot four of him, and paces towards me through the rain.
“What’s wrong with you?” He grabs my elbow. “Your guitar is going to turn to mulch out here. Get in the car. I’ll drive you home.”
Just as I’m trying to make sense of the fact that Jack Lansen has appeared out of nowhere in the middle of a storm and is screaming at me to get in his car, and has his huge hand wrapped around my elbow, a horn blares, long and loud. It’s an orange Lamborghini, offensively bright even in this rain, and it’s careening at high speed down the road. It’s going to hit that huge puddle so fast, we’ll be drenched.
Jack grabs both my arms, pulling me close to shield me as the car roars past, covering both of us in a tidal wave of rainwater. A second car, travelling equally fast, passes right behind, dousing us a second time.
I gasp as the freezing water drenches me from head to foot, but when the water clears, all I see is Jack.
He’s scowling, and his hair is plastered to his forehead, rain dripping off the congealed strands, cascading down his face. His suit jacket is a soaked rag against his torso, but he’s still holding onto me with both hands. There’s a split second where our eyes meet, and something like alarm flashes through his gaze, as though he’s not quite sure how he got here, pressed up against me, trying and failing to protect me.
“Fuck’s sake,” he snarls as he lets go of me and stares down at his soaked clothes. “I should’ve left you out here to drown.”
This whole scenario is nightmarish, but for some reason, I find it incredibly funny.
He’s sopping wet, I’m sopping wet, his car door is open, the lights are flashing. Cars are roaring past and honking.
I start to laugh.
His handsome face twists into a mask of disbelief. “What the fuck are you laughing at?” He blinks at me through the droplets that are hanging off his ridiculously long eyelashes.
I bite my lip to stem the unreasonable cascade of laughter that’s seeking its way up my throat, but it does nothing to hide how amused I am.
“If you don’t come with me right now, I’m leaving you here.”
“All right, all right,” I say, letting him drag me to the car.
He grabs my guitar from me, yanks open the back door, and tosses it onto the backseat. He slams the door way too hard, as if it’s the instrument that’s angered him rather than me.
Do I want to get in the car with him when he’s like this?Normally, Jack’s all cheeky smiles and amusement. I’ve rarely seen him take anything this seriously. He’s not himself.
But he's also right. If I don'tactuallywant to drown out here, his car is my best option. I get in the passenger side and Jack gets in the driver’s seat.
The windscreen immediately fogs up with the two of us in here, steaming and damp. Jack puts on the air con full blast to clear it, and the buzz of it fills the car. He hauls off his jacket and throws it into the back on top of my guitar case. His shirt underneath is soaking too. It’s so wet that the cotton sticks to the outline of his pecs in an alarming way, and a strange coil of arousal that I don’t want to examine too closely slithers somewhere deep inside me. Somewhereintimate…
Damn it.
He brushes his hair off his forehead and then grabs the steering wheel, glancing in the wing mirror as he clicks on the indicator. The window-wipers clear the screen in a hypnotic double-speed.
I press my spine against the back of the leather seat, crossing my arms over my chest, trying to ignore the straining of Jack’s biceps against his wet shirt as he drives.
I’ve never been alone with Kate’s brother before, and definitely not in a small space like this. His presence fills the car, mingling with the rich, masculine cologne he wears and the smell of autumn rain.
“Fucking Lambo drivers,” Jack curses. “Who the fuck buys an orange car? The same arsehole who doesn’t care about soaking pedestrians. That’s who.”
I think about commenting that he’d parked on a double yellow line, so maybe he’s just as bad.
“I like those cars,” I say.
Jack scoffs. “You would.”
What does that mean?I don’t want to give him an opening to insult me more than he already has, and for a few moments, neither of us speaks. There’s a strange tingling sensation spreading through my whole body, and I’m hyper-aware of the rise and fall of my breasts as I breathe. My nipples graze against the wet cotton of my bra.Has my shirt turned see-through?I need to say something to distract from the silence that’s wrapping around us, tying us together in its stealthy grip.