No Perfect Hero(5)

Trigger my fight or flight instinct, and I don’t do either.

I just lock up.

Don’t ever ask me to have your back in a bar fight. I’m useless.

Tara’s more useful, though, because as she comes out of the other bedroom and gets one look at us, she belts out a shriek that could lift roofs for the next mile.

The giant whips back, letting go of one of my shoulders and whirling toward her.

Then I guess I’m not so useless after all.

Because the very second it looks like he’s even thinking about going near Tara, everything in me fires up and I shove his other hand away roughly, glowering.

“Get your hands off me, you prick!” I snap.

He just blinks, dumbfounded, his massive fists suddenly hanging at his sides.

He’s tall – Redwood tall, to the point where I’m not quite sure how he fits in the hallway when his head is almost brushing the ceiling, his black hair a tangle just an inch away from the stucco.

His t-shirt looks more like something he painted on over thick, corded muscle with not an ounce of softness over chisels hard enough to cut someone. The blue fabric seems only subtly different from the texture of the tattoos snaking down his thick, bulging arms – a maze of patterns, stylized letters, and one simple one with the name Jenna etched in tiny script.

He drags a hand over his bearded face, the calluses on his palms audibly scraping against his stubble, still staring at Tara.

“Fuck. That,” he growls, “is a kid.”

“No shit, Sherlock,” I bite off. “And she’s with me. Stay away from her.”

He jerks back toward me.

Big mistake.

Without waiting around for another opportunity, I smash my purse across his bluntly handsome jaw, whipping it across his face hard enough to hopefully leave fucking alligator hide imprints in his swarthy skin.

He staggers back with a grunt. I dash past him, grabbing Tara’s hand and bolting for the door. “Come on!”

I should’ve known I wouldn’t get far. Goliath may be huge, but he moves like a cobra – lightning quick and lethal. We make it three steps back to the living room before he’s dodging around us, cutting us off, blocking the exit. Tara and I both draw up short, stumbling back.

“Move,” I growl, hefting my purse again threateningly.

Sure, it can't do much damage, but I doubt it’s fun eating a face full of leather.

Goliath folds his arms over his chest, squaring himself up and looking down at me sternly. “Not till I get some answers, lady,” he snarls.

“Answers to what? I just walked in here, and you started throwing me around like a freaking ping pong ball!”

“Yeah. You walked into my suite so—”

“Correction: it’s our suite,” I fling back, my face hot with frustration, brandishing the key like a tiny dagger. “Bought and paid for. I don’t know what the hell you’re doing in here. Maybe you should be the one giving some answers.”

Before I can even pull back, he yanks the key out of my hand.

Son of a—

“God damn.” He swears, peering at the key, then scrubs one hand over his face with a tired groan. When he looks at me again, he actually looks apologetic, his sky-blue eyes darkening to a simmering liquid cobalt. “Flynn gave you the wrong key. Sorry.” His jaw tightens. “Move along. I’ll get this straightened out.”

I bite my lip. I really don’t like being ordered around like this.

But I also don’t want to be standing in the middle of the Incredibly Pissed Off Hulk's living space.

Reluctantly, I drag myself outside as he throws the door open for us, Tara trailing in my wake.

God. I really hope he prefers keeping to himself. Because the thought of spending a few days bumping into this jackass again just put a major damper on my idea of a relaxing mini-vacation.

But as he steps out onto the porch, slams the door, and locks it, I can’t help lingering on the tight taper of his body as he walks away.

Why is it always the hot ones with personalities like an acid bath?

Even if he’s a jackass, he’s nice to look at.

Those jeans love his hips too much, and they seem pretty fond of his thighs, too.

His shoulders roll as he lopes with that kind of powerful strength that says half of it comes from learning to carry and manage his own massive bulk.

And his ink...Lord have mercy. We're talking tattoos so wild, so intense, so intricate they call to my artist's soul like a raging fire lures every moth.

I only got a few good looks at his scowling face, and it wasn't half bad either.

Midnight-blue eyes. Trimmed beard. Hair just a little too dark and thick, joining with his beard to form a rough halo of explosive testosterone around his face.

So there’s something about that.

Something I like.

Maybe it's because Eddy was nothing like him, skinny and refined and boy pretty.

Maybe it's because Eddy hid his rotten personality too well, while Mr. Goliath wears his asshole badge on his sleeve.

Maybe it's because I'm still just trying to decipher what the hell even happened.

See? I am picking up Tara’s habits, looking at the bright side.

Tara frowns, draping herself against the porch railing, watching him go. “He was kind of a butt, wasn't he, Auntie Hay?”