Nevada Baylor személy
I wondered if Mad Rogan ever got shocked . . . okay, I needed to stop obsessing over those eyes. (…) If I kept going this way, I’d end up on Herald, trawling for Mad Rogan fanfic. We made love as the city fell around us, raining down concrete in chunks of despair . . . Yeah, right.
I opened a writing app and began typing what I knew about Pierce.
Vain. Terminal fear of T-shirts or any other garment that would cover his pectorals.
Deadly. Doesn’t hesitate to kill. Holding him at gunpoint would result in me being barbecued. Whee.
Likes burning things. Now here’s an understatement. Good information to have, but not useful for finding him.
Antigovernment. Neither here nor there.
Hmm. So far my best plan would be to build a mountain of gasoline cans and explosives, stick a Property of US Government sign on it, and throw a T-shirt over Pierce’s head when he showed up to explode it. Yes, this would totally work. If only.
Likes to be arrested. It probably made him feel tough. Adam Pierce, the rebel.
“And the next time you choose to project into my dreams, do keep your clothes on.”
He smiled. It was a very male, self-aware smile, not just sexual but carnal. The predatory look in his eyes turned ravaging. (…)
“I can project, but I would have to be next to you to do it.”
His voice turned smooth and sensual. A man had no right to sound like that. “Tell me, what wasn’t I wearing in your dreams?”
I rose, turned my back to him, and walked out.
“Rogan,” I said. “Lift up your shirt.”
He pulled his Henley up, exposing his side. A folded paper towel covered his lower ribs, held in place by duct tape.
“What is this?” I demanded.
“It’s a bandage,” Bern said.
“No, it’s not.”
“Yes, it is,” Grandma Frida said. “Sometimes you cut your finger and you wrap the paper towel around it real tight, slap some duct tape on it, and good to go.”
“Your father used to do this,” Mom told me. “I swear, it’s like every man is born with it, or they must take some secret class on how to do it.”
“Do you have a girlfriend?” Grandma Frida asked.
I put my hand over my face.
“No,” Mad Rogan said.
“A boyfriend?” Grandma Frida asked.
“What about . . .”
“No,” Mom and I said in unison.
“But you don’t even know what I wanted to ask!”
“No,” we said again together.
“Party poopers.” Grandma shrugged.
“I’m sorry, I have to take care of some business. It can’t wait, but I’ll keep it short.”
“Not a problem. I’ll busy myself with being seen and tossing my hair. Would you like me to twirl it on my finger while biting my lip?”
“No, sorry.” I grinned at him.
“We should have sex.”
I must’ve misheard. “I’m sorry, what?”
He glanced at me. His blue eyes were warm, as if heated from within. Wow. “I said, we should have sex. You and me.”
“No.” Alarm made me sit up straighter.
“What do you mean, no?”
“I mean no. Has it been so long since you heard the word that you might have forgotten what it meant?”