Free Dirty Kisses by Addison Moore Page B

dick and his ego. I suppose that’s a compliment and an insult rolled all into one, but he sort of deserved both.
    I’m in no mood to rouse the beast, so I let myself in through the back and tiptoe to my bedroom. I’ve been schlepping in a few boxes at a time, and it’s starting to feel more like a storage facility for Nordstrom than it does a place to call home.
    I close the door to my room, only to be met with a bright orange bag with the WB logo printed on the front sitting in the middle of the bed. I recognize that bag. It’s from the bookstore. I have hundreds of these plastic totes, but I know for a fact I didn’t put it there. I peer inside, and my stomach drops. The notebooks, the beautiful silk scarves, the cheery pink shoes, the game day polish, the sweats—it’s all there. I suck in a sharp breath and retrace my steps until I land in the living room.
    “What’s that bag doing sitting on my bed?” It comes out so sharp and accusatory that for a moment I hate the sound of my own voice.
    Jet keeps his gaze straight ahead at the television, shirt off, muscles rippling, those tattoos of his seem to be animated in this murky light, and my stomach implodes with heat.
    “Hello to you, too.” He tips his head back, offering me a tight, yet brief smile. “They were putting it away. Turns out it’s against the bookstore policy to hold anything, so I thought I’d pick it up—save you a trip.”
    “Oh.” Crap. “Um, thanks. I’ll pay you back as soon as I can. And I plan on paying you half of the rent until I can find my own place.” God, it’s like I’m suddenly the queen of lies. I don’t even have a paying job at the moment. Something tells me they wouldn’t hire me as kitchen staff in the cafeteria if I groveled. I hate the idea of going back to Stilettos, but as for now, that’s my only option.
    “No worries. I’m not looking for money. You’re welcome to stay until you get it figured out. Do your thing. Go back to dancing.”
    Go back to dancing?
    A self-righteous anger boils in me at his sudden burst of sarcastic kindness. Jet and I have been a lot of things to each other, but kind to one another isn’t one of them. This is the same Jet Madden who was down at Stilettos just as much as I was.
    “You know, arrogant superiority isn’t a good look on you.” A knot builds in my stomach as soon as I get the words out. I’m pretty sure biting the hand that feeds me—or in this case houses me—isn’t the best idea.
    The muscles in his jaw redefine themselves, and I find this vexingly sexy. I’m not sure I’ve ever been infuriated by a boy who looks this wickedly delicious—who I darn well know tastes devilishly delicious, but at the moment my inner rage is winning out, and it’s all I can do to keep from screaming.
    He swings his head over in my direction. Those pecs of his spring to life like a couple of pit bulls—rather fiercely sexy looking pit bulls, but that’s beside the point.
    “You know what’s not a good look on you?” He rises and heads in my direction with a slow, deliberate swagger. Those jeans of his hug him in all the right places. To be honest, I’m a bit shocked he’s able to stuff his junk into any pair of Levi’s now that I’ve been up close and personal with the weaponry he’s hauling around.
    “What’s that?” I take a bold step into him. My chest grazes over his without meaning to, and an electrical jolt so powerful nearly knocks me off my feet. His lids hood over as he leans farther in, those full lips inverting for a moment as if readying for a bite.
    “The hurt and suffering you’re trying to hide,” he says it slow, just this side of a whisper, and my heart stops beating at the sound of his cutting words.
    “I’m fine,” I insist, a little too loud. “And, by the way, it’s called holding it together. I’m not hiding anything.”
    “It’s called lying to yourself,” he counters without missing a beat. “You’re going through a lot,