I reared up and made a grab for them as Ren clipped, “Ally, what the fuck?”

“Give me my jeans!” I snapped loudly but he held them away.

Thus began a stand up tussle that included some slapping and grabbing (me), defensive maneuvers (Ren); my part desperate, his part possibly confused. Finally, he tossed the jeans behind him and since he was a tall, powerfully-built Italian hothead standing between me and my jeans, an obstruction I was not likely to breach, I grunted in frustration and shoved his chest (also in frustration).

He took two steps back and lifted both his hands, palms out my way.

“Right. Enough. Calm down and tell me what the fuck you’re talkin’ about,” he demanded.

I locked my eyes with his.

“You fought over her that night.”

His head jerked and he asked, “What?”

“That night!” I shouted. “That night we hooked up. You fought with Luke over Ava.”

Suddenly, his body went completely still, as did the air in the room, and his eyes didn’t leave me but they’d gone funny as he whispered, “Seriously?”

“Seriously,” I hissed.

He shook his head, not in the negative, like he was trying to clear it.

Then he asked disbelievingly, “You’re tellin’ me we’ve been in each other’s space for over a year and you’re throwin’ this shit in my face now?”

“Well, if that’s not enough…” I shot back instantly, slamming my hands on my hips, something Ren’s eyes watched before they came back to mine and I saw they were heating.

This was a warning signal I’d made a habit of not heeding. And at that point, I did the same and kept right on talking.

“There was the night at the art gallery where you said you had eyes on me but I never caught your eyes on me. But I did see you gazing at Ava!”

I sounded like a jealous bitch. I knew it. And I didn’t care.

Because the big bossy jerk asked me to Ava’s wedding!

Those eyes I was talking about narrowed and he returned, “I might have looked at Ava, Ally, but fuck, only because she was there.”

“You didn’t look, Zano, you gazed.”

He blinked then asked, “Jesus, have you lost your mind?”

“No.” I answered. “I’m a woman and I know.”

“You know,” he replied.

“Yep,” I bit out. “I know.”

“You know, for a year I’ve been bangin’ you, busting my ass to find a way in with you, you gave me every sign I was succeeding… and before you open your mouth to deny it, I’ll remind you about Christmas morning,” he warned me.

Since I’d opened my mouth to deny it, at his reminder, I snapped it shut.

He kept going.

“And that entire fuckin’ year you’ve been thinkin’ I’m in love with another woman and you didn’t say anything?”

God.

Was he serious?

“What do I say, Zano?” I retorted. “What questions do I ask when I don’t want the fucking answers?”

“If you’d asked, you might have found you wanted the answers,” he fired back.

Then, all Italian hothead badass, he lost it.

Lifting a hand, he tapped the tips of his fingers to his temple and jerked his hand out at the same time leaning into me and shouting, “You’ve totally lost your goddamned mind!”

“You know I haven’t,” I snapped.

“No,” he clipped as he turned. His movements rough with suppressed anger, he stalked to my jeans, still talking. “What I know is, I wasted a goddamn year on a lunatic. Jesus. Fuck me,” he bit out, bending and tagging my jeans. He turned and tossed them to me, continuing, “You hide it well, Ally. All that fucking crazy under all that hot. You had me snowed, thinkin’, you allowed me to dig deep, I’d get the warm and sweet with the hot, not a hot fuckin’ mess.”

I’d caught my jeans and I had nothing to say to that remark but no chance to say it before he prowled by me, his anger now at such an extreme that his movements were fluid as his adrenaline flowed.

And he kept talking.

“You wanna go. Go. Be my guest, honey.” He bent and grabbed his own jeans, tugging them on and not looking at me. “You want this over, you get it, ‘cause now, with this, I see I’ve wasted a year on your bullshit, and honest to Christ, I never wanna lay eyes on your jacked ass again.”

Ouch.

That hurt.

No, that wasn’t right. It killed.

But I took his invitation.

And not only because it was the only option open to me.

Also because it was the smartest.

As fast as I could, I dressed and made sure I had my phone and all my belongings (not that I came with many, Ren dragged my ass there in another Italian hotheaded tizzy).

But I knew Darius and Brody were staying in the same hotel, I just didn’t know their room numbers and I needed to get from here, to one of their rooms, then home, and fast (my pick, Darius).

But at the door, because he didn’t get me, I decided before we were over, he was going to fucking get me.

Hand on the knob, I turned to him, dredging up what had been haunting me for over a year. Something that had killed the hope I had for my own kickass Rock Chick fairytale. Something that taught me the death of hope was the worst thing you could experience.

I saw he was pulling his shirt over his head and started, “That night, beer and bourbon and you liking the Bears?”