Punishing Me (Shaft on Tour #6) (9 page)

“Now
wait a damn minute,” I start.

In
one swift movement, he grabs me, tossing my body over his shoulder like I weigh
nothing. “I told you,” he says, heading for his car. “Until your car is fixed,
it goes nowhere. Now, we can do this the easy way, or the hard way. I don’t
mind getting rough,” he chuckles. “Sometimes, I prefer it.”

“Shut
up, pervert.”

“Who
said something perverted? Where is he?” he asks, stopping mid-step. Spinning
around in circles, he scans the yard, while making me dizzy. “Want me to say
somethin’? I will. I’ll kick his ass.”

“Oh
my God. Stop it!” I shout, slapping at his back with both hands. “Just put me
down!”

Walking
around the passenger side, he opens the door and drops me down in the seat. “Is
that all of it?” he asks, bracing his arm on the open door. His nostrils flare,
his chest rising and falling, stretching that white t-shirt to max capacity
with every breath. I can’t help staring, waiting to see if it combusts under
the extreme pressure.

If
he were wearing a button up shirt right now, I have no doubt he would take my
eye out and every window on this side of the house.

“Maybe
on the way to a hotel we can stop and buy you tighter shirt,” I mutter
sarcastically, my eyes roaming over every inch of his body that the white
cotton hugs like a second skin. “I don’t think that one quite cuts off the
circulation.”

He
looks down at his chest, his brow furrowing. “Yeah, yeah,” Meeting my eyes
again, he crosses his arms over his chest and studies me. The sleeves stretch
around his biceps, hugging each and every curve of muscle. “Answer the
question, hater.”

“Yeah,”
I huff, sagging back into the seat. “My keys are on the hook beside the door.
My purse is on the foyer table.”

“That’s
better.”

Slamming
the door closed, he makes his way inside. “Are we havin’ a sleep over?” Jazzie
asks, poking her head up between the front seats.

“No.
Mack,” I say, remembering that no one really calls him by his actual name
around here, “he’s going to take me to a hotel since my car is still broken.”

“Is
your house broken too?” she asks, scrunching up her nose as she stares out the
windshield, curiously.

Dominick
steps out, settling everything on the porch before pulling the door closed and
locking it. I take in the huge home, and I nod. “Yeah, Munchkin,” I reply,
blowing out a breath. “It is.”

Bloody Chicken
Fingers

Mack

I
knew the moment she opened the door, all set to go overly-violent and desperate
popstar on me with the umbrella, that something was up with Ireland. Her shit
packed by the door and the talk about heading to some hotel for ‘alone time’
was bullshit and I knew it.

There
is nothing she hates more than being alone.

Well,
other than me…

This
morning, Henry nearly blew a gasket when reports started coming in about some
dinner she attended with her parents at a high profile, five-star hotspot.
Though the photos are far from flattering for her, as soon as we watched the
video, it was easy to see what happened. Both Henry and I would have seen that ambush
coming from the parking lot, had we been there. One look at the set-up, Ireland
never would have set foot in the door.

In
my opinion, the blame for that is as much ours as it is hers.

Though,
I’ll be damned if I tell her any of that.

With
the ladies, you learn to pick your battles. But, when a woman packs a right
hook, like Ireland Tyler, you are either going to master that skill quickly, or
learn to take a punch. My odds are about half and half and I can live with
that.

Besides,
if she ever leaves the band, she’d make a hell of a cage fighter.

Ireland
hasn’t said a word since I loaded her bags into the trunk and climbed into the
car. Though she hasn’t had to. Jazzie’s jaw has been flapping non-stop. “What’s
your favorite movie?” she asks from the backseat, rambling. “Does it have a
princess? Princesses are my favorite. Mack is a princess. That’s why his hair
is so long.” Grabbing the seat, she leans up, stopping just shy of Ireland’s
ear. “He says it holds all his power.”

“I
know that the six-year-old in the backseat would never unbuckle herself so she
could shove her ass into the front seat,” I say, making her jump.

Sitting
back in her seat, she straps herself back in. Meeting my eyes in the rearview
mirror, she rubs her belly. “Feed me,” she growls, “You won’t like me when I’m
hangry.”

Running
through a fast food drive-thru, I grab lunch for the kid, hoping it will shut
her up for a few minutes so her brain and lips don’t overheat from talking so
much. Though, once I order, I spend ten minutes assuring the kid that the dude
in the drive-thru isn’t actually chopping off chicken’s fingers and feeding
them to her. To which she laughs and squirts ketchup all over one as soon as I
hand her the box. Pointing it at me, she laughs. “My chicken fingers are
bleeeeeeeding!”

“If
you get ketchup all over my backseat, I’m putting you in the trunk and keeping
your toy,” I warn, only making her laugh harder.

“Wait,”
Ireland pipes up, sitting up in the seat and looking out the window. “Why are
you heading out of the city? Hotel is back that way, Doofus.”

Shaking
my head, I take the ramp and merge onto the highway. “You’re just so cute when
you think you have a choice,” I chuckle, reaching over and pinching her cheek.
“Isn’t she so cute, Jazz?”

“You’re
weird,” Jazzie says, burping. “I wonder if chicken eat their own fingers off. I
would. They’re yummy.”

Slapping
my hand away, Ireland gags, her hands flying up to cover her mouth. “Ireland,
are you about to heave in my car?” I ask, ready to pull over and shove her out
onto the shoulder. Rule one of riding in Mack’s badass car: no expelling of bodily
fluids. Unless it’s mine, because I’m getting road head.

Mile
marker hummers sure as fuck don’t happen often enough around here…

“No
puke allowed!” Jazz says, propping her feet up on the console between the front
seats and crossing her ankles.

Ireland
swallows hard. Taking deep breaths through her nose, she drops her hands back
into her lap. “I’m not going to puke,” she exhales. Shifting in her seat, she
glares sharply at me. “Where are we going?” she asks, but the tone in her voice
tells me she already knows.

“Your
hotel.”

Exiting
the highway, I smile to myself. Turning up the radio, I whistle along with
Taylor Swift’s newest hit about her latest breakup, while Jazzie makes up all
her own words to the song. I glance at Ireland out of the corner of my eye.
Blowing out a breath, she shifts her entire body away from me. Crossing her
arms over her chest, she stares out the window, no doubt rolling her eyes as
she plots my death.

There’s
no pouting or plotting my death in my car…

This
is rule two, people.

Pulling
into the drive, I punch in the access code on the pad. The large, iron gates
open wide, giving me and my brand new black Ford Mustang, I have rightly named
Black Beauty, plenty of room to gallop. “Ready, kiddo?” I ask, stopping just
inside the gates and revving the engine. The supercharged motor roars like a
hungry lion, ready to charge. Gripping the wheel tightly with one hand, I stare
ahead at the paved drive, lined on both sides with trees and bushes all
carefully designed for privacy and peaceful seclusion.

“Ready…
Freddie… Go!” Jazz screams, throwing up her tiny fist and waving a napkin in
her other hand like a flag.

“Dear
God, I’ve gotten in the car with the star of Fast and Furious: Dipshit with a
Gearshift.” Ireland sits up in her seat. Grabbing the door with one hand, and
the center console with the other, she winces, her eyes slamming shut. Revving
the engine again, I release the brake and cruise up the driveway nice and slow.

Pulling
in beside the ‘Burban, I look over at wide-eyed Ireland and laugh. “Your face!”
I laugh, gripping the steering wheel. “You look like you got accidental anal
from a charging rhinoceros. Priceless!”

“Right
now, I’d gladly take the rhino,” she mutters, opening the door and nearly
falling out of the car.

Shutting
off the engine, I climb out and help Jazzie down out of the car. “My best
friend is here!” she shouts, running toward the house. “Look it! Everybody!
She’s here!”

“You
okay?” I ask, closing the door and making my way around to the passenger side.
Ireland has her back to me, her hip pressed into the side of the car. Her head
is bowed, shoulders slumped as she breathes deeply, but doesn’t speak.
“Ireland?” I ask, my hand coming up to rest on her shoulder. “I’m sorry if I
scared you. I’d never hurt you.”

“Liar,”
she breathes. Spinning to face me, she stares up at me, tears swimming in her
eyes.

“Ireland,”
I sigh, guilt twisting in my gut. Reaching out unsteadily, she grips my
forearms, clutching on like they are the only things keeping her on her feet. I
step closer, concerned as hell that she is going to faint. Fuck. “Talk to me,
babe.”

Instantly,
Ireland’s eyes darken like vicious storm clouds. Everything about her screams
for me to run for my life, but I can’t. I am frozen in place, a little scared
for my life, and a lot turned on. The second my dick begins to stand at
attention, her knee collides with my junk. Hard. My eyes roll into the back of
my head and I collapse to the ground like a sack of potatoes. Defensively, I
curl into a ball and shield my cock and balls with my knees and both hands.

For
a second, I debate playing dead out of fear of a second wave of attack. Maybe
she will think she killed me and walk away instead of using her booted foot to
finish me off.

“In
what world is it okay to do that?” I heave, feeling the vomit churn in my gut.
I swear if you kick a dude in the nuts, you should get a fist in the vagina.
Men don’t kick other men in the balls, we know that shit hurts like a bitch.

Bending
down, she points a finger painted, as black as her heart, in my face. “This
episode of lesson time with Ireland is brought to you by Bradford’s crushed
nuts. If you call me that again,” she winks, an evil grin spreading across her
face, “The things I’ll do to you will make accidental anal look like a trip to
Disney World.”

“The
dudes in costumes scare me more than you do,” I wheeze, trying not to puke.
Seriously, though, those furry fuckers are terrifying. You don’t know who or
what is behind the big eyes and sewn on smiles. I won’t even drive by that
pizza place with the giant rat, no matter how much the kid begs.

My
sanity is priceless people.

“Didn’t
ask you to bring me here. Don’t need some moronic babysitter bossing me around.
Touch me, try to use that whole sweet act on me that we both know is nothing
but total bullshit, and I’ll—”

“I
thought I heard you out here,” Henry calls from over by the garage, his voice
causing Ireland to stop mid-sentence. Just as I see his feet step beside my
front tire, he laughs, pushing his sunglasses to the top of his head. “I’m glad
you two are getting along so well.”

“Yeah,”
I groan, rolling to my stomach before pushing to my feet. “It’s just awesome,
isn’t it?”

Ireland
smiles, the blue dancing with her smug satisfaction. I swear if I wasn’t about
to throw up everything I have eaten today, on top of the nagging concern my
fuck stick will remain forever limp, I would be tossing out some backhanded
comment to wipe that shit eating grin off her face.

Who
the hell would wanna shoot 8-ball with a rope for the rest of your life?

No
one fucking wants that!

“I’m
glad you decided to stay here with us for the rest of this week, Ireland,”
Henry says to her with a sincere smile. “The girls have your room ready and you
can go on in and make yourself at home. Guys are jammin’ and the girls are in
there gabbin’ about baby shit. If you need anything, anything at all, it’s
Mack’s mission to take care of you.”

“Uh,”
she and I both say in unison.

“Anything,”
he repeats, patting my shoulder as he passes us. Winking at Ireland, he heads
back towards the garage where Brannon sits in the pedal car Henry built for him
for Christmas. “Ready, little man?” he asks, causing Brannon to bounce in the
seat and grin from ear to ear.

“Funny
how I don’t remember agreeing to shit,” Ireland says, glaring at me. Crossing
her arms over her chest, the look in her eyes is frigid. “This borders on
kidnapping.”

“Woman,”
I fire back, rolling my eyes. “You’re not tied up or gagged, though I wouldn’t
mind gagging your chatter hole just so you’d shut the fuck up. Wanna go to a
hotel? Hit the bricks, fancy pants,” I smirk, leaning into her body. She
tenses, going rigid as stone. I make her uncomfortable, and I like that. She is
a pain in my ass. The last thing I want is for her to breathe easy while giving
me shit. “I’ve got no problem packin’ a bag and holdin’ up in a hotel suite. In
fact, let’s do it. I could use a few days with nothing to do but relax, eat, and
drink beer while having total control over the remote.”

To
my surprise, she doesn’t back up or turn away from me. Instead, Ireland takes a
step closer to me, putting us toe to toe. The look in her eyes says she isn’t
backing down an inch. The fire burning behind the deep blue irises is
promising. Nothing about this look is something I would have seen from the
seventeen-year-old, Ireland Tyler.

Her
face scrunches up in repulsion. “A fate worse than death,” she mutters, rolling
her eyes. “Hiding out for days, alone in a hotel suite with only you for
company, sounds about as much fun as lubing up with rubbing alcohol and fucking
myself in the ass with a razor blade dildo.”

“Careful,
you’ll hurt my feelings,” I say with a wink. “Do you wanna make me cry? Because
I will.”

Her
brow arches, and she pats my arm. “Relationship goals.” Shoving by me, she
pushes her hair over her shoulder. “Dump my stuff in whatever room is mine. I’ll
deal with it later.” The long brown and purple strands swish back and forth
with every step she takes toward the front porch. My eyes stay glued to her
ass, tightly encased in dark wash jeans. The light bounce it has, and the sassy
sway in her hips sucks me in.

Forcing
myself to turn away toward the car, I realize two things. One, she’s stubborn
as hell, but so am I. I may have bitten off more than I can chew this week, but
I’ll be damned if I let anyone see that shit. Dominick Bradford rises to every
challenge, even a smart ass with a chip on her shoulder and a mile-high grudge.
Two, she didn’t break my dick because the sight of her ass, as she walks away
from me, has him rising too.