Down and Out(58)

She rolls her eyes, but it’s impossible to take that seriously when a smile’s tugging on her lips like that. “God, you’re bossy.”
“Yep. Now hurry up and get your pretty ass ready,” I say, smacking her backside.

An hour later, I’m sitting on the couch, channel-surfing as I wait for Savannah. I always thought guys were exaggerating when they said how long it took girls to get ready, but sadly, they were not. . .
I sigh and look down the empty corridor. The faint glow from her partially closed door lights the dim hallway, and if I listen closely, I can hear her flitting around her room, doing . . . God knows what. I have no idea what she’s doing in there that’s taking so damn long. She could be painting the Sistine Chapel by memory for all I know.
Geez, she almost took thirty minutes in the shower, and all she had to do then was wash stuff. And shave, maybe. I just don’t understand how something that takes me ten minutes, tops, could take her that long. By the time I got in there, it was all hot and humid, and it smelled like a strawberry bomb had gone off.
And don’t get me started on all the shit she leaves next to the sink. My countertop’s been overrun by makeup, brushes, and hair contraptions that I think are supposed to curl your hair, but look more like medieval torture devices.
Although it is kinda cool to see our toothbrushes sitting next to each other, like they’re buddies, or something. It’s . . . domesticated. And surreal.
I like it. I like it a lot.
Heels click down the hallway and I look up, nearly swallowing my tongue. Savannah’s got legs for miles in sky-high black heels and a skintight black miniskirt, offset with a short-sleeved white button up shirt that can best be described as a “blouse.” I really have no clue if that’s what it is or not, but it’s prim and proper. V-neck, but not low enough to show of any cleavage, and there are goddamn ruffles on it.
She looks like a sexy librarian. Her hair’s even piled atop her head in a messy bun.
My eyes lock on her red lips and darker, smokier eyes. It’s the first time I’ve seen her wear makeup—well, obvious makeup—and she’s just . . . beautiful.
I immediately scowl.
Her brows furrow as she glances down at her clothes, smoothing her shirt. “Is this okay? I thought, you know, since you said there was going to be a party. . .”
She’s a helluva lot more dressed up than I am, in my worn jeans, thermal shirt, and beanie, but it’s normal at these matches for the girls to dress up more. “No, it’s fine. You look beautiful.”
She frowns as I stand up and turn off the TV. “Then why do you look so mad?”
“Because I’m gonna be busy cock-blocking a lot of guys tonight,” I mutter, grabbing my keys off the coffee table. I watch the corners of her mouth tilt up and her eyes roll before gesturing for her to lead the way. She struts past me and my eyes are glued to her ass, to the smooth curves and the way they sway when she walks. I cock my head, frowning as I study her closer. “Are you even wearing panties under that?”
She opens the door and grins at me over her shoulder. “Wouldn’t you like to know?”

Savannah frowns as we pull up to the Dormandy Hotel, leaning forward to look at the tall gray building as it disappears into the black sky.
“Why are we at one of the nicest hotels in Boston?” she asks.
I put the car in park and unbuckle my seatbelt. “The guy who runs the organization also owns this place. Fights are held in the basement arena, aka The Pit.”
“Oh.” She unbuckles herself as I jump out, nodding at the valet who’s waiting to take my car.
“Thanks, man,” I say, grabbing the numbered ticket from him and jogging around the front of the car, just in time to hold out my hand and help Savannah out.
“Thank you,” she says, releasing me.
I immediately take note of the raised hemline of her skirt. “Is it just me, or did your skirt get shorter?”
She shrugs, looking up at me and smiling at my unease. “It hiked up a little bit when I climbed out of your car.” She steps around me and walks—no, sashays—to the brightly lit entrance, smiling up at the doorman as he holds open the giant plate-glass door.
He swallows and smiles back at her, his eyes dipping down the length of her body before he notices me glaring daggers at him and jerks his gaze front and center. My eyes are narrowed into murderous little slits as I pass him and walk into the lobby.
I grab Savannah’s elbow and pull her aside to an empty hallway, filled with banks of courtesy telephones. Pressing her back against the wall, I glower down at her. “You’re not gonna fix it?”
Mouth agape, she jerks out of my grip. “Why should I? It’s not like my ass is hanging out.”
Wrong answer. My jaw clenches as I glare down at her. “Fix it.”
“No.” Her chin juts out as she gets that defiant gleam in her eyes. “You’re not the boss of me here.”
Damn it. I both love and hate her response.
My hands clench by my sides as I lean in. “Do you want me to go to jail? Because that’s exactly what’s gonna happen when I start throwing punches at every * that looks your way. Now, I repeat: fix it.”
“Fine.” Reaching up, she unpins her hair and lets her loose waves fall around her shoulders, then undoes the top two buttons of her blouse so the pale, milky valley of her cleavage is peeking out. Finally, her hands drift to the hem of her skirt and she pulls it down a few inches. She smiles up at me sardonically and crosses her arms, which only pushes her breasts together more. “Happy?”