Free Handled by Angela Graham Page A

hear it. Along with the rest of the building.
    “Crazy Bitch” by Buckcherry starts blaring from above, sending a very clear message.
    Shaw told him what he couldn’t see himself.
    And he’s not happy about it.
     
     

Chapter 9
    He’s itching for a fight the minute he walks in Thursday night.
    I’m certain Vaughn Stone’s not used to being told no, and I’ve been avoiding him like the plague for three long days—not an easy feat when he lives upstairs.
    Worst part? My heartbeat takes off like the thoroughbred closest to the starter pistol as he stalks up to the counter, the defiant provocation oozing from his every pore locked in an absurd battle with my vow of resistance.
    “Paige,” he snips, tense jawline twitching once. “Saw Joe at the bar. He was bitching that Viv called in sick again , which I knew meant you were here by yourself tonight. Am I right?” He glances around facetiously, then props his arms on the counter and waits.
    I arch my brows, silently demanding a non-rhetorical question before I answer.
    “Not safe, Paige. Pisses me off.”
    Or a bullshit statement like that.
    “Is that right? Well, lucky for us both then that I’m a big girl and not your problem. As is Viv, who’s finally pursuing something with Marcus, so don’t rant to Joe and blow it for her!”
    “I didn’t say you were a problem. Not that you aren’t, a pain in my fucking ass if truth be told, yet here I am, pissed off for more reasons than one.” Unblinking, his bold stare burns into mine, begging me to give in, reach out…but I stand firm in my attempt at detachment.
    “I’m leaving on a haul tomorrow. You wanna ice me out, fine, but don’t work alone at night while I’m gone just to prove a point. It’s unsafe and stupid.”
    I watch in confusion as he strolls over to one of the tables, pulls out a chair, and sits down! What the hell? I don’t know sign language, except “fuck you,” of course, so I’m forced to break my pledge of “see some sexy, hear some sexy, speak none back.”
    “Comfy?” I ask sweetly.
    “No, these chairs are hard as hell.”
    “Then maybe get up? How do you drive for so long if you’re such a wuss anyway?” Shit, there he goes drawing me in to salty banter—my favorite—without even trying. He’s just such an admirable opponent, damn him.
    He lets his head fall back and brushes a hand through the thick raven locks with an antagonistic laugh. “You wouldn’t last a day on the road, Paige. Your ass goes numb, your back aches, your eyes sting. You’ve almost mastered that badass thing you’ve got going, but not enough to fool me. You’re a chick. That I know firsthand.” He winks. “You’d bellyache the whole time…like a chick.”
    A hangnail is a pain in the ass. You pick at it little by little, knowing it’s gonna hurt like hell when you yank it out, but you do it anyway, unable to resist. He’s goading me. A bird of my feather, he knows I won’t be able to give him this and will cave to the unspoken challenge. Damn all that is Vaughn Stone yet again !
    “Weak, Vaughn. I’m disappointed; surely you can do better than that.” And where the hell are the customers? Any distraction would be welcome at this point.
    “Better than what? I’m dead serious. You’d be miserable inside a day. Don’t get bent, any girl would be.”
    I reach in to his beloved jar of jawbreakers and aim, spiking one off his head.
    “Ow! Fuck!” He rubs where I’m hoping a knot is already forming and glowers at me. “What the hell was that for?”
    “For being a chauvinistic prick! And why are you still here?”
    “‘Cause I’m a goddamn glutton. I just love that evil tongue of yours. Being treated like shit gets me hot!” he yells, throwing the jawbreaker back at me, but miles off, on purpose. Wuss .
    “You missed.” I bark out a laugh, clinging to my shield of indifference.
    “Paige, you keep stoking the fire and it’s gonna blow, baby.” The warning’s delivered in an