Alley-Oops I Think I'm Falling in Love (With the Wrong Guy)

[44] Love and War

She had a point... fat kid on a noodle.

But there was also no way in hell I could waltz around in front of Roscoe Tate right now, not like this, not after last night.

I furrowed my brow, "Roscoe's like those mangy seagulls at the beach. Once he realizes he's not going to steal any French fries, he'll see himself out. He'll be gone in less than five minutes."

"Damn." A very male, and very deep, voice remarked. "Mangy seagull, huh?"

I withered on the spot.

I burrowed inconspicuously into my bed, hoping to disappear. I couldn't fathom what he was doing here, what game he was playing.

Maggie was petrified—slack jawed, eyes glazed, pencil limbs tucked at her sides—it was almost too nightmarish to be possible.

I gathered up fistfuls of blanket and gaped at the hulking man idly surveying my bedroom. His characteristic jaunty sneer simmered beneath a tranquil facade, the corners of his warm honey eyes wrinkling in cruel delight.

Clearly, he was loving this—whether it be the peculiarities of my household that amused him or at catching me with my pants around my ankles, I couldn't say.

Roscoe's sun-kissed hair was deliberately chaotic in a way mine could never be. A black hoodie hung off his frame like it'd given up trying to contain him and his rolled sleeves revealed the tattoos swirling up his forearms. His white Air Force 1's were spotless, a thin gold chain glittered at his neck and he smelled like something expensive.

In stark contrast to my own appearance, everything about Roscoe's aesthetic was lazy grace—loose, but not sloppy; sharp, but not stiff. And the infuriating thing was, he probably rolled out of bed looking just like that—effortlessly immaculate and more beautiful than he had any business being.

So, why the freak was he in my BEDROOM? Not even my porch, my bedroom?!

I pinched my eyes shut and angrily cleared my throat.

"You are such a pervert." I groused, pushing to my elbows.

My skin suddenly felt insanely clammy, like the temperature in the room had jumped twenty degrees. I didn't dare push the blankets off though—too revealing.

"Morning, DeLang." He said sweetly, ignoring my comment and completely unbothered by my accusation.

He tilted his chin at me with all the swagger of his station and Maggie whimpered faintly. I shot her a warning look. The corner of Roscoe's mouth twitched into a half-smile and I knew that his bottomless well of confidence had just received yet another deposit.

"Don't, 'hey, DeLang,' me!" I blustered, "Ambushing girls in their bedrooms? Really Tate? That's low, even for you. Your canteen can't be that dry."

Roscoe wet his bottom lip, no doubt weighing if he wanted to go toe-to-toe with me right now or continue playing nice in hopes of obtaining whatever he was after.

"Get dressed." He ordered, his tone bored. There was nothing but certainty in the way he said it, like he knew I'd comply before I did.

I barked out a laugh.

The audacity of this man, y'all.

"Maggie," He drawled, rubbing his hands together with a devilish smile, "Tell your sister to come with me."

What was that?

Maggie pointed to herself, then blushed profusely as Roscoe turned his full attention on her. When he looked at you like that, it's like gravity tilted in his favor. He didn't have to touch you, he didn't even need to say anything. It was the intention in his gaze—the way he locked in, like he had no where else to be. Add in the way his absurdly long lashes accentuated the playful glimmer in his eye... and that's a wrap.