Page 54 of Chasing Caine
Pushing him away, I yelled over the music, “Back off, jackass!”
Before he could respond, there was a hand at his throat and Antonio was between us, towering over him. I couldn’t hear a word they said, but Antonio’s shoulders broadened and the other guy’s hands flew up in surrender.
With a shove from Antonio, the kid—man, technically—stumbled and he and his buddies left.
Antonio turned to me, a wild look in his eyes. He retrieved the underwear I clutched in my hand and stashed them in his pocket. Before I could process what had happened, he grabbed my upper arms, pulling close enough to yell over the music. “Are you alright?”
I shook my head to jostle a coherent thought free, but all I could come up with was “What the fuck?”
“He touched you!” His grip on my arms was too tight.
“Like that woman in the silver dress was touching you?” I wrenched one arm from him, although the jerking motion set my balance off again.
I should have known better.
No, wait. I did know better. Men couldn’t be trusted. They were always looking for the next piece of ass.
“Bella.” He normally said it with endearment—teasing, loving. But this time, it was sharp, and his features clouded over.
“Don’t ‘bella’ me, you asshole!”
He flexed his jaw and took my hand, dragging me from the dance floor toward the wide staircase at the back of the room. I yanked for him to let go or stop, but the alcohol threw my coordination off just enough I couldn’t.
I pulled closer to him. “What are you doing?”
He stormed up the stairs to the second floor without a word, where I had a full view of the mass of writhing bodies on the main dance floor from the edge of the balcony. We passed people watching over the railing, groups at more alcoves, and pockets of dancers. He stopped at the far end, at an inconspicuous door.
Producing a key, he unlocked it.
He opened the door and ushered me inside with more care than he’d used to drag me up here. Red wallpapered bathroom with soft lights, marble-countered sink with a vase of irises, and one stall. Small black wooden tables stacked with folded white towels. He slammed the door shut, muffling the music outside.
I spun to see him engage a slide lock and stalk toward me.
“VIP bathroom. Mario gave me the key.”
“What the hell?”
He blew out a long breath as he ran his fingers through his hair. “You and I need to talk.”
“In a bathroom?”
“You may not have noticed this, but I’m having a difficult time with you.” His hands settled on his hips.
My head was still swimming. I hated how sexy he looked, how powerful he seemed in that moment, and how weak I was in comparison. He was confidence and control, and there I was, yet again, unable to measure up. I shot back. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
“It means you keep constructing walls. Every time I think you’re letting me in, you introduce another hurdle.”
“What the fuck does that haveto do with everything that just happened downstairs?”
His eyes hardened. “Samantha, I am a man—”
“Gee, hadn’t noticed.” I rolled my eyes dramatically.
“That!” He pointed at my face. “Right there! Pushing me away again.”
“You’re one to talk. Skulking off with god knows who while you get Mario to distract me? Then that woman at the bar?” I shouldn’t have said that. “I guess you need a new flavor for September, don’t you?” And I really shouldn’t have said that.
His nostrils flared, and the pointing finger transformed into a clenched fist, which dropped to his side. He snarled through gritted teeth, “I won’t dignify that with a response. You’ve had too much to drink.”