Chapter 15: Nice Guys Tame Bad Girls

Feels like a double update Monday.

Adam

I don't even fuck with the dudes trying to push up on my woman. I pull 'em back from Mac by their collars and trust Trace and Bodie to deal with them.

"WHAT. THE. FUCK. MACKENNA? LUCKY. SHOT. REALLY?" Every word of mine is calm but absolute.

Mac is sitting on the bar, kicking her leg, her eyes scrunched in little half moons.

Huh, that's weird. That's not her pissed off look. Her pissed off look always comes with bared teeth.

Before I can figure it out, she plants her hands and raises up to stand on the bar.

"What are you gonna do, Adam?" she rains down, hands on her hips. "You think you have some goddamn say here?"

Fuck yes, I have some goddamn say. Three times I've offered you that fucking pill and you won't take it. If you wanna maybe have my baby—if you are choosing that possibility—then you are choosing my fucking my input, Shortcake.

But I can't say any of that in public.

That's alright. I'm more of an actions-speaks-louder-than-words guy anyway.

I pick up one of the shots and pour it on the floor as I stare up at her.

"You possessive fucker," she says quietly, with a strange, almost-smirk on her lips.

No, MacKenna. The fuckers in this scenario are the poor misguided fuckers that bought you shots  for no good goddamn reason, cause you sure as hell aren't hoteling any of them, not—I grab the bar napkin with the asshat's name. Max? No, not Max. Fuck Max. I crumble the napkin and throw it over my shoulder.

Mac leans down in my face. I can smell her citrusy-vanilla scent, and see her beautiful tits hanging right in front of me, barely covered by two black patches. "You think you're the boss of me?" she challenges.

I take the next shot—some dickhead names Zeke—and I pour it on the floor right on top of Max's. Fuck Zeke, too.  I hear some pissed off laughter to my right and Trace growling—"Don't even fucking try me!" but I don't turn around. These douchebags aren't even worth my time. My boys got this.

I lean up into Mac's face. "Not your boss. Your man," I assure her. "There's a difference. Stop this stupid shit, and let me take your hand and help you down."

She makes a growly little sound of discontent, right against my lips. "Can't do that, Preacher. We're on the job for Marcy," she growls.

"I noticed," I spew back. There's a fucker nearly up in our faces, filming. I give him the side-eye. He looks familiar. Some LA blogger that freelances for a gossip rag.

She stands up and puts her damn platform boot against my chest. The camera flashes are blinding and she gives me a hateful, beautiful look with her glossy lips on full pout. Like she could send me to hell or raise me to heaven. Basically the same thing, when it comes to MacKenna Lawson.

That's the moment I decide. I don't know what kind of game she's playing, and I don't fucking care. All I know is... I'm gonna win.

I ignore the foot still on my chest. I pour three more shots out in quick succession. I don't even bother to look at those shithead's names, as I toss their napkins. "Fuck all your lucky shot fucks!" I yell up at her. They don't matter. She tries to push me away with her foot on my chest, but I'm rock solid—a goddamn mountain of indignation. I grab her ankle—force her foot down on the bar. Her fists clench. She bends down again.

"Fuck!" she screams in my face.

"In a minute!" I assure her. I pour out a couple more shots.

The last two shots, I drink.

"Thanks...Mason, and..." I hold the napkin up to Mac. "What's that say?"

"Seamus!" she growls.

I turn around. "Thanks, Seamus. Irish Car Bomb. Good choice." I give a thumbs up as I throw the napkin. I take two giant steps up—stool, then bar— right into Mac's face. She instinctively steps back. I grab her before she missteps off the back of the bar.

"Careful, Sweetheart," I growl. "I'm pretty pissed off, but I don't want you to get hurt."

"I'm sorry," she breathes. "Fair warning— I might fight you a little. Maybe even bite you, too. I'll explain later."

"That's alright," I assure her. "Gives me an excuse to spank you."

We are as close as two people can be without being in each other's mouths.

"You know, I really was going to get with Maxwell. A little. I feel sorry for him. He's getting married, poor bastard," she goads me.

I shake my head at her bad joke.

"YOU'RE DONE HERE!" I yell right in her face and she doesn't even flinch. As if my dick weren't hard the second she leaned down and flashed me her mostly bare tits, it hardens further as she stares in fascination at my mouth as I yell. Fucking hell, I'm going to lose my shit. I gotta get out of here. With my woman.

I step off the back of the bar and throw her over my shoulder in one smooth motion. She delivers what she promised—one helluva fight. I don't smack her ass in public—not until I'm out the kitchen door. Then, I give her two firm whacks and throw her in the goddamn limo, ignoring John's smirk as he climbs in the front.

The privacy screen separates us from the driver and John as I barrel in the back. She's on me before I even get seated. I grab her wrists—no fucking way is she scratching my face—but she surprises me.

With a hard, fierce kiss.

Hell no, MacKenna. I'm kissing you, tonight.

I have her down on the seat beneath me with a swift jerk of her leg, and then I'm all up on her mouth, demanding entry. She gives it, her tongue becoming a soft, gentle countermeasure to my penetrating, forceful muscle. She takes my weight as I press her into the seat.

I take her breath—and all her fight—away.

"Adam," she gasps against my mouth, futily trying to force my face away from hers.

"Shut-up, unless you have something nice to say," I growl.

"It's nice, I promise," she pants.

I give her lips some space by forcing our foreheads together.

"You...were...amazing. I knew you'd come. You...did...so...good." The way she can hardly speak...I realize I'm crushing her. I raise up a little on my knees and she takes a long breath of relief. That sweet rush of her breath...it drives me nearly past the point of restraint, but I have to know...

"That guy...that blogger..."

She nods, her hands still caressing my jaw. "Zeke. OK Magazine. He got suspicious when I wouldn't drink with them. He said he had tipsters on us. I got scared. About where you got the Plan B and who picked it up. I made a scene to keep him from digging for more...I knew you'd stop me..."

My smile is pressing against the soft skin of her throat now. "Smart thinking." I pull back to look at her again. "You know me."

Mac is so very lovely and sweet as she looks up at me. Her eyes are nearly sea-green, and her lovely warm hair is spilled all over my hands beside her head, and she's biting her lip. "Adam...you always come through. No questions asked, even if it seems like I'm fucking up. Even if you are furious with me. You are always there, right when I need you. I...can always trust in you."

I shrug. "Well, duh, Shortcake."

"I...I want to be that for you. You...you really think we can be good to each other?" she whispers,  searching my face. Tears leak from the corners of her eyes and trail down her temples. Fuck, that nearly brings tears to my eyes. I blink them back, get control.

"Without a doubt," I say. There is no waver in my voice, because I'm that sure.

She stars to sob, her shoulders rolling up off the leather seat and erupting in a quavering mewl from her pursed lips as the tears flow. I reach both my arms underneath her and scoop her up, pulling her into my lap.

"Adam," she gasps, as I plant butterfly kisses on her forehead, cheeks, and chin.

"It's okay, Sweetheart. Shhhhh...we're okay," I soothe.

"No...I—"

"I know. It's all good..." I smooth her hair and wipe her tears with the cuff of my button down.

"Adam..."

"Mac..." I nod, as I wrap my fingers in her red-gold hair and pull her lips to mine.

Just as I close my eyes, she whispers, "Adam, I love you."

I open my eyes. Hers look absolutely wild, this close to mine. I pull back. My thumbs still on her deathly pale cheekbones. Her ocean eyes spill more saltwater and her lips tremble.

"Yeah?" is all I can think to say—just because I want her to say it again.

Her head bobs slowly. "Yeah. I love you."

This time, I feel it. And it feels  good. I've waited a long damn time for her to trust in us.

Five years.

So worth it.

"That's really good news, Shortcake. I guess it goes without saying..."

"Say it anyway," she sobs.

I laugh. I put my hand on her forehead, smoothing her hair over her crown, then cupping the back of her head, as I place my other hand over her wildly beating heart. "I love you. For a long time now. And so very much."

She folds against my chest, burying her sobs against my neck. I stroke her spine with all ten fingertips and whisper into her hair. "Sweetheart, you have to stop crying."

"Why?" she blurts between sobs.

I nuzzle her ear. "Because I don't think I can make love to you like this," I murmur.

Her sobs take on a hiccupy, loopy sound. "Really? Here? Now?"

"Oh yeah," I assure her. "It absolutely can not wait."

OOOOOOOOOOOOHHHHHHHH, law. Even I'm crying, and I wrote it. I think Trace is gonna win that Benji!!!! He bet on the limo lovin', right?