Chapter 27

Twenty-Seven

SCOTTIE

"Challenge accepted."

It comes off as me flirting, and it's because of the alcohol I've had.

I don't drink.

It brings up too many unwanted memories and triggers something that I want no part of. But leave it to Emory to irritate me to the point that I go against my own defenses.

He smiles, and it's a nice change from the stoic, broody glare I always get.

His hands move a little lower, and his dangerously hot expression shifts. "That's the way you want to play?" He sounds excited, and I gulp.

Shit.

I've bitten off more than I can chew, but there's no going back now. In fact, I'd rather chew my own arm off than let anyone, especially Emory Olson, see any sort of weakness I carry.

"Yep," I answer, letting the P pop from my mouth. I push closer to him, and my stomach flips. "I may be your wife, but that doesn't mean you get to boss me around or insult me every chance you get."

He laughs.

My nostrils flare with anger, and the alcohol in my system burns brighter. "And the threats stop now too."

Emory closes the gap between us. Our bodies press together tightly, and it probably seems like we're just newlyweds, unable to keep our hands to ourselves, but little do they know, we're sparring. "You're tempting me, Rogue."

"Tempting you to do what?" I act unfazed by his strained voice, but heat sweeps down my back.

His hands tighten against my waist, and my heart skips a beat. I can't remember the last time I was touched by a man my age who wasn't throwing twenties at my feet while tracing every curve of my body with their slimy eyes.

I can easily feel myself slipping into a fantasy with Emory that simply does not exist.

It all started with the box seats. I was forced to pretend like I don't have a load of debt, a convict brother who needs my help, a dead father who left me with abandonment issues, and a mother who hardly recognizes me and would rather live with a needle in her arm than try and come back to reality.

"You're tempting me to prove a point."

His answer snaps me out of my thoughts. "What point?"

"That you're mine."

I open my mouth to argue, because it's my default, but he takes control so quickly I don't have time to think.

Emory drags his hand across my hip and pins me against him by gripping my chin with enough force to get my full attention. "I'm going to kiss you."

My eyes widen.

"Prepare yourself because, remember, everyone in this club thinks I've fucked you, Scottie. So act appropriately."

"Emor—"

Every single thought disappears.

Him.

That's all I feel.

His mouth falls to mine, and at first, I think it's a shock to both of us. There's an electricity buzzing between our bodies, and the tension is so tight my chest constricts. His fingers grip my face tighter as his other hand slowly skims over my curves like he's touched me a million times before. Just when I think he's done and he slowly lets up on my mouth, he goes back in for more.

I'm at his mercy.

The warmth of his mouth on mine flows through my limbs freely, and I find myself opening up for him. He kisses me again and again, sweeping his devilish tongue back and forth. He presses his lips harder into mine, like someone is trying to pull us apart, and the smallest little bit of fear slips through at the thought.

When a little noise escapes me—without my permission—it snaps him out of whatever spell we're both under. He pulls back, and although he doesn't show it on his face, I feel it in his grip.

He's just as shocked as I am, even if he was the one in charge.

And I guess that's what he was trying to tell me this entire time. I'm his, whether I'm being paid or not, and he's just proved it to anyone who's watching.

After glancing around the club briefly, I'm pretty sure everyone was watching.

Malaki wiggles his eyebrows, and I'm sweating from the attention.

Emory clears his throat, and I watch him fight through some type of thought. Our eyes meet and, with a grumbly voice, he says, "Since I've proven my point, I think it's time to go."

His warm palm falls into mine, and we say a brief goodbye to his teammates and the wives. As soon as we're outside, the cool air coats my heated skin, and I inhale deeply. I feel drunk, and it has nothing to do with the tiny shot I had.

I reach inside my purse for my keys but stumble forward when Emory pulls the bag from my shoulder. "You're riding with me."

A little high from the kiss, I'm slow to be combative. I follow after him for a split second before snapping out of it and stopping abruptly in the middle of the sidewalk.

It doesn't take long for Emory to realize I'm not moving. He turns slightly, looking at my mouth once before moving to my eyes. "Scottie, I'm tired. Let's go."

"What about my car?" I ask.

He gawks at me. "What about it?"

I look around at my surroundings. It's well past business hours, but the city is still very much alive. Replacing sleek vehicles and business men biking to work are Ubers and gangs of drunken college students mixed in with the homeless who are trying to score a buck.

"Someone might break into it or…steal it."

It might seem silly to be attached to a shitty car like the one I own, but the hunk of metal is a part of me. I saved up for it, and as of late, it's one of the only things that I consider mine.

I'm proud of it.

Emory's laughter pisses me off. I cross my arms over the jersey he made me wear. I'm seconds from ripping it off just to irritate him.

"Oh, you're serious?"

"Yes," I snap. "You might be new to Chicago, but I'm not. Downtown is…"

I glance around once more to prove my point but stiffen immediately when I recognize a familiar face.

A chill whips through me.

My thoughts spin out of control, and I suck in a soft gasp. A tremble racks my bones, and I hardly hear Emory when he says, "If someone steals your car, I'll buy you a new one."

A hollowness carves into my stomach the longer I stare at her.

I try to avoid the places I know she frequents, because these interactions stay with me much longer than I want. Seeing my mother in the state she's in drives a knife in so deeply I'm left feeling sick over it for days.

Look away, Scottie.

"Come on, Scottie. Don't make this any har?—"

I hurry forward and almost run into Emory's chest. He studies me with confusion when I frantically nod. "Okay. Let's go."

I lean into him for silent support, and although he has no idea why, he allows it. The little line of worry smooths after he shakes his head, ignoring my insane behavior.

When we reach his car, I don't fight with him over opening my door, which is probably just something he's doing because so many people are out and about—most of them having gone to the game themselves. I turn once more to glance at the group of homeless loitering outside of the small convenience store on the corner because I can't help myself.

Seeing her in this state is what destroyed my youth years ago, and it's only gotten worse since. There's a pressing ache in the center of my chest, pulling on the walls I've built over the years.

I drag my attention away and dig my nails into the leather of Emory's passenger seat. My jaw hurts from the pressure, and my ears ring until Emory's large hand lands on my arm. I jump and make eye contact with him. The lights on his dashboard move against the side of his face, and his furrowed expression tricks me into thinking he's worried. His attention shifts past me, and he gazes out the window in the direction that I was staring off into.

He says nothing.

Instead, he leans in close and grabs the seatbelt from beside me. He pulls it taut against my body before shifting his car into gear and speeding off toward his house.

I wait until my heartbeat settles and I regain the ability to speak again before I glance over at him and say, "You're not buying me a new car."

He scoffs. "You're impossible."

I shrug and settle back into the seat. "You married me."