Jacked Up (Bowen Boys #4)(32)

Leaving her badly wounded female pride aside, she had to admit not going all the way had been the right thing to do. Sex with Jack would complicate their fragile arrangement to an impossible extreme. He was overbearing enough as a babysitter; she didn’t want to know how he behaved when he thought he had more say because he was f*cking her. And f*cking her would be all that he would do. There would be no making love. His severe demeanor and the contemptuous way he looked at her ensured that.

“You going to train at the same time or you plan to stand beside me in the dancing room, stalking my every move? It’s an all-female dance class, but I’m sure we can accommodate you. Teach you the steps and include you in the choreography.”

A grunt was his only answer. He hadn’t said two sentences to her today. Grunts and growls had been about it.

She’d been pissed too after the way he’d walked out on her. She’d felt cheap and rejected and, well, hurt. Jack wanted her, but he couldn’t stand the fact that he wanted her, like she was some kind of shameful weakness of his. Her plan had been to read him the riot act in the morning, but she realized there was no need. Jack was punishing himself enough for the both of them.

“Not sure you’ll be any good at dancing though,” she added while Jack parked in front of the gym. “One needs certain flexibility, and you seem a bit stiff, if you know what I mean.”

He threw her a murderous look and got out of the car. Stiff? Ha! Every single muscle in his body was strained by the looks of it. She was afraid at any second he would sprain something.

Good. He deserved that and so much more.

They entered the gym in silence. He didn’t ask what kind of dancing class and she didn’t tell. She wasn’t going to be the one spoiling the surprise.

Jack walked to the practice room with her and glanced around. She rolled her eyes. A frigging miracle he hadn’t insisted on entering the dressing room too. Paranoid ass. Which kind of self-respecting Miami mobster with more money than God would be seen in a suburban Boston gym with violet walls and carpool housewives? Please.

“Sure you don’t want to stay?” she taunted him. “The girls would enjoy a man dancing with us for a change.”

He threw another murderous glance her way and, without saying anything, left the practice room and walked to the weight machines nearby.

“Who’s that?” one of the women whispered to her.

Judging by his language and social skills, the missing link between humans and monkeys.

“A friend of my brother-in-law.”

“He is hot,” she said giving Jack another once-over.

Sure he was hot; a hot pain in the butt. And he brought out the worst in her. The belligerent side. The Elle that didn’t want to submit, never mind how much her body was dying to give in. Exhausting, really.

The rest of the ladies started pouring in and soon the teacher, Dolores, trotted in and got the music going. “You ready to twerk?”

Everyone cheered.

Elle reached for the door and locked it.

She appreciated what he had done for her. What he was still doing, never mind how disgusting it obviously was for him to stick around her, but he exasperated her. It was his black-and-white, unbending attitude. His arrogant superiority. His my-way-or-the-highway. That air about him that demanded obedience.

“Five, six, seven. Let’s shake those booties, ladies,” Dolores screamed as hip-hop blasted from the speakers. She loved loud music and flashy lights. Part of the sexy experience, she always said.

Before the first song was over, Jack was at the door, trying to open it. Elle could pinpoint with maddening accuracy the second it dawned on him that it was locked because his icy-cold eyes flashed with fury.

She turned to him and with an I-told-you-so smile, waved at him. She would have thrown an air-kiss his way, but she wasn’t sure the glass door would hold if he rammed it, so she refrained.

Dolores was a stickler for punctuality—a fact that had landed Elle in trouble many times—and hated people coming late or interrupting, so she ignored Jack, which suited Elle just fine.

Through the glass she watched as he reached for his pocket and took one of those antacids he seemed to gobble nonstop. He might have looked tense before, but now it was much worse. The vein at his temple was about to burst and he was grinding his teeth.

Screw him. His fault.

For a whole hour, Jack stood in front of the glass walls, his arms crossed, his eyes spitting fire while Elle did her damnedest to make him pay.

He was sweating more than she was, especially when she did the floor movements. She could swear his muscles had increased in size, his silhouette big and ominous. The few men who dared to brave Jack’s threatening demeanor didn’t even get close enough to see too much. Jack made sure of it.

Once the class was over and the girls started marching out, she expected Jack to rush inside but he didn’t. He waited for her, immobile, his expression inscrutable.

She walked past him, trying to hide her smug expression, but failed miserably. “I saw you at the door. Would you have wanted to join us after all?”

He remained quiet, but it cost him a hell of a lot, she could tell. His knuckles were white, his jaw about to split.

They walked to the truck in silence. The engine roared to life.

“Don’t you f*cking ever lock a door on me.”

She lifted her eyebrow, dying to tell him he was dreaming, but she refrained and went back to fiddling with the radio.