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Flashbacks from the White Auction fill my head and I remember how Durant looked at Hannah that night. Like he wanted to fuck every orifice of her body and then swallow her whole. It makes me sick.
Once they’re inside, I pull up to the valet, get out and hand the guy a crisp one-hundred dollar bill. “Watch my car. I won’t be long.”
He pockets the money fast. “Sure thing, sir.”
With a nod, I march up the steps and, right before I enter the restaurant, doubts punch me in the gut and heart. What if they’re on a date? What if I just imagined she looked miserable? What if the jealousy burning through my veins right now is making me lose my damn mind?
It’s hard for me to draw in a breath much less think clearly and I storm by the hostess podium and scan the restaurant. The lighting is dim and the atmosphere is romantic Which, of course, only angers me further. By the time I see them sitting beside each other at a corner table, my blood pressure is skyrocketing and everything in my vision is a hazy red.
Not thinking clearly, fueled by rage, I stalk up to their table. “What the fuck is going on here?” I demand. I don’t even try to keep my voice low or mask my anger. It’s already hit the boiling point and there’s no holding back. Pretending to be civil is beyond me and, at this point, impossible. I’m fucking livid.
Caleb’s eyes go wide then narrow into tiny slits while Hannah blows out a breath that can only be described as relief. She also looks shocked as hell to see me.
“Not that it’s any of your damn business, Rossi, but Hannah and I are on a date,” Caleb states in a superior tone that makes me want to punch him in the face.
I turn my attention to Hannha. “Is this true?” I ask.
Her face pales at my question and she’s fumbling with the napkin on the table. When she doesn’t answer me right away, my suspicions return. This morning my fingers were knuckle-deep inside her pussy as I made her come hard on the conference room table. And now she’s out on a date with this scum? Nothing is adding up and my head is spinning.
Why isn’t she answering me? Why isn’t she begging me to take her far away from this asshole? I don’t understand what’s going on. All I know is I’m not about to let these two finish their so-called date.
It’s fucking over.
“C’mon, Hannah. We’re leaving.”
“No, Rossi, she’s not,” Caleb says in a low, smug voice.
Again, she hesitates and my heart twists in my chest. Why isn’t she jumping across the table and leaping into my arms?
“Yeah, she is,” I state firmly, “and if you try to stop her, I’m going to kick your fucking ass all over this restaurant.”
“You wouldn’t dare.” The bastard leans back in his seat, drapes his arm across the back of Hannah’s chair and has the audacity to smile at me. Durant is so sure of himself, so damn cocky, and I’ve had enough. Then he really pushes me over the edge when he says, “Make yourself scarce, Rossi. The lady isn’t interested.”
All of my anger focuses on Durant and I reach across the table, grab him by the lapels of his suit and drag him forward. Dishes and glasses clatter to the floor and Hannah gasps, jumping up and out of the way. I pull my fist back and slam it into his face. Durant goes flying backwards, hits the wall and drops like a sack of potatoes.
But, he doesn’t stay down. Instead, he jumps back up and charges, hitting me in a low tackle in the knees, and knocking me flat on my ass. We roll around, throwing punches, and I can hear the diners around us getting upset.
But, I don’t stop. I can’t. It’s like something possesses me and all I can do is fight. Durant is surprisingly strong and he gives as good as he gets. I manage to get some well-placed hits in, but so does he. Eventually, someone yanks me backwards, away from Durant. At the same time, a waiter is pulling him off me, too.
Now that we’ve been broken apart, I’m done. Getting out of here is my first priority and I shrug off the man holding my arm, stalk forward and wrap my fingers around Hannah’s upper arm, pulling her toward the exit. I pass the manager who I know and grunt, “Send me a bill for any damage.”
Once we’re outside, I practically drag Hannah over to my car, open the door and push her inside. Then I walk around, get in and squeal away from the curb. I need my anger to die down before I ask her for an explanation. Hannah, on the other hand, is ready to talk. And, to my utter surprise, she blasts me.
“What is wrong with you?” she exclaims, turning to face me in her seat. “Do you have any idea what kind of scene you just caused?”
I shrug a dismissive shoulder, not caring in the least.
“Someone could’ve been hurt or worse,” she scolds me.
I try to reel my temper in, but my fingers tighten around the steering wheel and, for the first time, I notice my bloody knuckles. My cheekbone hurts, too, and I glance in the rear view mirror to see it already looks like it’s swelling and bruised. Fucker. Seeing that just makes me madder. Hannah is still talking, but I’ve tuned her out. That is until I hear her say, “I’m not yours!”
That one statement pulls me back into the argument I was trying to avoid. I really didn’t want to say something I might later regret, but it’s too late now. Beyond pissed, I spin the wheel and turn the car into a nearby alley. I shouldn’t be driving while I’m feeling this emotional and upset, anyway. Slamming the car into park, I turn my full attention to Hannah.
“What’re you saying? Your his? You belong to him?” I seethe.
“What? No!”
I throw my hands up in absolute frustration. “You’re driving me so goddamn crazy I can’t think straight!”
