as I walk toward the garage, like a fighter going into the cage. A cage containing a lion, at least that’s what it feels like when the garage comes into view and my steps slow.
My heart booms.
You can do this, Octavia. Nothing to it. Just walk up to the guy and tell him to stop or… Or else what? You’ll spank him?
I stop in front of the garage. It’s like déjà vu. How much time has passed since the day Matt stood between me and Jasper, me and Ross? The day he told them I worked for him?
The day he claimed me, that’s how it’s called in my mind, but I shouldn’t think that way.
I really shouldn’t.
Even if I agreed to having a picnic with him and his kids tomorrow in the garden, outside work hours.
Even though I stayed with him last night, in his bed. And we had sex before that in the bathroom. And in the kitchen.
Very much outside work hours and as far over and beyond professional boundaries as you can possibly get without becoming lost in the desert.
Jesus. Stop thinking about that. About Matt.
But it’s easier said than done, especially since what I’m about to do has everything to do with Matt.
Here goes nothing…
Striding into Jasper’s Garage like I own the place isn’t something that happens every day. Many heads turn and whispers start as I cross the car bay, searching for Ross.
Whoever said men don’t gossip is clueless. They just gossip using monosyllables and sign language. They’re specialists.
They’re also good at communicating quickly, probably a remnant from their hunter-gatherer days. A whistle, a wag of brows, a whispered word over cars and engine parts, and by the time I reach the other end of the garage, Ross is standing there, thumbs hooked in the pockets of his work pants.
Smirking at me.
“Still looking for a sugar daddy?” he drawls, looking at me from under his lashes. With his dirty blond hair and blue eyes, he looks a lot like Merc sometimes, which annoys me even more. “I knew you’d come crawling back.”
“Screw you, asshole.”
“Not today, baby.”
God, I hate him. “I came to tell you to stop with your stupid-ass games. It isn’t funny, Ross.”
He lifts a pale brow. “Games? I like the idea. Shall we play a game, then?”
“No,” I hiss, all too aware of all the eyes on us, all the mechanics listening in to this godawful exchange. “We won’t. Let’s be straight with each other for once.”
“Straight? You mean, unlike your little faggot brother?”
“Shut up, Ross.” My heart is pounding inside my throat, making speaking difficult. “He’s not, and in any case, it’s none of your business.”
“You sure about that?”
Jesus, what is he talking about now? “I only came here to tell you to stop posting those moronic messages on Matt’s door and mine and Adam’s.”
He’s frowning now, lower lip sticking out—just like Merc does when he’s upset.
Christ.
“What the hell are you talking about?” he mutters. “I never wrote any fucking messages. And I don’t know who the hell Adam is.”
“My neighbor. The one I…” Sort of dated. But not really. “We sometimes have ice cream together.”