Out of Love(18)

“That’s the biggest line of crap. He’s not injured. You had sex with him. Just say it. Who cares? Why are you acting so weird about it?”

Shutting the door, I leaned my back against it. “I didn’t have sex with him.” Narrowing my eyes a bit, I scraped my teeth along my lower lip. “He got shot.”

“Wait … what?” Her hand paused, mid-cut through the celery. Eyes wide.

“I know nothing about it. He was drunk and basically passed out on his bed when I got there.” I stopped short of mentioning he sutured himself up.

“Who? Why? Livy! What happened?” Aubrey dropped the knife and dried her hands, going into full concern mode.

“I don’t know.” That wasn’t a lie. I had no idea what happened, and I felt pretty certain I would never know.

I felt pretty certain I should stay far away from Slade Wylder.

I also felt pretty certain that would never happen.

“Probably a deal gone wrong. I don’t know. Legit.” I offered another shrug because it was the truth.

“Please tell me you’re done with him. The curiosity. The hanging out with his dog. I actually think I should say something to my parents and have them report suspicious activity at his house. This is supposed to be a safe street, not a street where someone comes home with a gunshot wound.”

“Uh …” I lifted an eyebrow. “Sure. Safe. Except for the professor who kidnapped a student and kept her in his creepy dungeon.”

Aubrey rolled her eyes. “Okay, yes. Except for that.”

“I’m going to shower.”

“He’s sexy …” Aubrey said like a question or maybe a warning.

I stopped midway up the stairs. “I’ve seen my fair share of sexy guys … I’ve even dated a few. What’s your point?”

“No point. Just an observation.”

Before she could make any more observations, or anyone else had the chance to wake up and ask me too many questions, I showered and headed to the library to do some research for one of my classes and escape the dizzying events of the previous twenty-four hours.

As I made my way to the far corner of the library with my computer and a few books recommended by my professor for my paper, I halted my steps when Jericho came into view at the feet of my mercurial neighbor. If someone had shot me, I wouldn’t have been at the library the next day. Before I could resume my steps toward the back table by the window, Jericho eyed me and hopped up.

“Down,” Slade said with his back to me, not knowing why his dog wanted to abandon him for someone with a much brighter personality and the best treats in her bag.

Yeah, I quickly learned to always have Jericho treats in my backpack.

When Jericho didn’t respond instantly to his owner’s command, Slade glanced over his shoulder.

I smiled, forcing my feet to continue onward, even with his unreadable gaze tracking my every move making each step feel like trekking through treacherous terrain—a battlefield of nerves. “You should be home, resting,” I said with a shaky vibrato.

That gaze … gah! It shot a million jolts of adrenaline and anticipation racing through my veins.

“Why?” Rather impertinent eyes continued to strip me bare.

At least, it felt intrusive, bold, and intentional.

I swallowed again and again. So much for nervous dry mouth. Nope … everything felt wet in his presence. “I guess we’re pretending last night didn’t happen. Huh?” I deposited my books on the table across from him and rested my bag on the ground as I took a seat.

“Last night?” He squinted.

I could tell from his curious inspection that he wasn’t planning on me inviting myself to sit next to him.

“I don’t know what happened last night…” he tipped his chin to focus on his notepad, left hand scribbling away “…but this morning you were in my bed, half-naked, and wrapped around me.”

Liar.

I wasn’t wrapped around him. I wasn’t touching him.

“Sorry. You must be remembering a dream. I’m flattered. Really. But you’re not my type, Wylder.” I opened my laptop.

“What’s your type? Women?” Haughty, arched lips challenged me without looking up from the table.

“Guys that don’t come home with gunshot wounds.”

“So … boring?” he continued, chin to his chest.

Bringing up my Word document, I shrugged. “If virile, sober men is your idea of boring, then … yeah. I guess my type is boring.”

Glancing up slowly, he rubbed his full lips together for a few seconds. I tried really hard not to stare at them, but I failed fantastically. My mouth moved on instinct—telling him how unmanly and not my type he was while my eyes fucked him every way imaginable.

“You don’t think I’m masculine?” His wolfish grin led me into a trap.

Ripping my gaze from his mouth, I forced my lips closed and refocused on my computer screen. “I’m just saying … last night you were not energetic or vigorous. My type would have been able to …”

“Able to what?” He angled his head.

Lifting a shoulder in a partial shrug, I mumbled.

“Sorry … I didn’t catch that.”

Clearing my throat, I said it a little louder and slower. “Copulate.”