Only When It's Us (Bergman Brothers #1)(30)
Her hair was combed out and wild. Thick, wavy tendrils coiled around each other that fell down her shoulders, faint wisps teasing along all that cleavage.
I can’t figure out what prompted her to do it, what could possibly make her dress herself up like that. That’s not Willa, not the Willa I know. Even though I was confused by her behavior, even though I missed those oversized sweatpants and her frizzy bun, I had a hard time not responding to the seductive appearance of her body, and she damn well knew it.
I might have come back with a vengeance the next time I was at her place. At first, when she was fretting over that soup, I had the irrational need to soothe her, to tell her I didn’t give a shit if dinner was a little scorched. But I resisted and stuck to my plan. I cornered her, leaned in, touched her until she was a lusty mess in my arms. I wasn’t planning on kissing her, not really. I planned to get so close, so very close, until our lips almost met—
My phone buzzes, snapping me out of my thoughts. I drop the loaded-up barbell I’m lifting in our makeshift basement gym in the house, and swipe it open.
It’s a video from Becks. It’s hard to see at first, so I tilt it to avoid glare and increase my screen brightness. Dark shadows, strobe lights. It’s obviously a club, which isn’t surprising. That’s where Becks lives most nights. Two women dance, writhing against each other. One’s tall, legs for miles, a sheet of blonde hair drifting down her back. The other’s shorter, more compact, light striking the defined muscles of her thighs that trail down to strong calves and sky-high black stilettos. She wears a short red dress. Jesus, is that even a dress? Her hair’s wild, misbehaved curls, caramel brown under the lights.
Wait.
Before I can text him, Becks sends another message. Isn’t that Willa? She’s wrecked, man.
I swear mentally, sprint up the steps and take the fastest shower of my life. Where are you? I text him while I hop into jeans, madly running a hand through my wet hair.
He answers immediately, Club Folle.
Shit. That’s a nice one. I take a quick look at my beard and try to comb it a little. I should probably trim the thing at some point. No time now. Scrounging around in the closet, I find a wrinkle-free button-up and throw it on. Keys, phone, wallet, then I’m in the Explorer, flying down the 405 for Culver City. It’s not far but it feels eternal, driving to find her.
Willa hasn’t been herself the past few weeks, and I’m worried. I know she’s under a lot of pressure with grades and the team. I certainly don’t make her life easier. Working with her on our project, though, I’ve tried to lighten up, to present my issues with gentler language. I served her cookies and tea. I finally gave her the entire semester’s notes. I’ve tried not to be an absolute dick. I know I can be a bit rough around the edges, and I can see Willa has a lot on her plate. Besides the weirdly seductive, sabotaging one-upmanship we’ve been dabbling in the past two weeks, I’ve tried to be decent to her.
Was the whoopie cushion taking it too far? I mean, I owed her. She made me look like a horndog fool with those notecards, scrambling my brain with sensual touches so I couldn’t even recall the inventory shrinkage formula. No part of me was shrinking when she pulled that stunt.
And in retaliation, I embarrassed her in front of like…four hundred people.
Maybe not a reasonable response.
Before I can think about it any further, I pull up to the club, tossing the valet my keys, and jogging to the entrance. I’m waved in because this is Becks’s kingdom and if you’re in with Becks, you’re in at Club Folle.
Places like this are my worst nightmare. Immediately, sound smacks my ears and what’s normally a persistent tinny ring ratchets up to excruciatingly loud steel drums. I squint, trying to minimize the overwhelming impact of the strobe lights as I slip through the crowd. Thankfully, it’s easy to see. I’m taller than virtually everybody else.
I spot Rooney first, doing the kinds of moves my mom would ground my sisters for even trying. When she spins, there’s Willa, and now Rooney’s dancing looks like a Puritan shuffle by comparison.
Willa’s ass swings in mesmerizing circles, her powerful quads sustaining her body as she grinds to the floor, then she snaps up. Her hands are in the air, revealing defined shoulders and a peek of cleavage not dissimilar from the morning of the yellow shirt that shall live in infamy.
A loud sigh leaves me, swallowed up in the sounds of the club.
Rooney spins, then freezes as her eyes start at my feet and trail appreciatively up my body. When her gaze settles on my face and she recognizes me, her features shift from interest to wide-eyed fear.
“Oh shit.” She says it emphatically, with a bright blue strobe light shining on her face, otherwise, I’d have no idea what she just said.
Willa’s oblivious, bouncing her butt against Rooney’s thigh, making Rooney bounce in rhythm with Willa’s movement. Rooney stares at me in horror as she sways. I step around her and crouch until Willa and I are eye level.
Willa’s eyes are shut, her plump bottom lip pinned between her teeth. Sweat beads her neck and chest. Rooney manages to bump her enough that Willa opens her eyes and immediately locks them with mine. They narrow coyly as she checks me out. As realization dawns, they widen, and she stands up. “Ryder!”
Standing turns to swaying. Before Willa can fall and concuss herself, I sweep her into my arms, carrying her toward the back exit I pegged the moment I entered. Shoving open the door, I set her down carefully in the night air, and press her up against the brick wall. Bracing my hands over her head, I face her, making sure she doesn’t collapse as I try to calm my anxious anger.