Beautiful Sacrifice (The Maddox Brothers #3)(20)
Author: Jamie McGuire

Taylor shook his head.

“Good. Moms can really screw kids up that way. You’re lucky you never ended up crying over the washing machine because you couldn’t figure out how to turn it on.”

“Sounds like you know from experience.”

“The help did our laundry.” I waited for his reaction.

He had none.

“If your parents are so rich, why are you in this shithole?” he asked, pulling off his sweatshirt and throwing it into the washing machine, leaving him in just a thin, too-small T-shirt that read Eakins Football in faded letters.

I stared at him for a moment, fighting the inevitable smile creeping across my face. “They made bad choices.”

Taylor lumbered to the couch and fell onto it, bouncing a bit, and then he tested the cushions by pushing down on them with his hands. “Like what?”

“None of your business.”

He leaned back, crossing his arms.

“What’s with all the tattoos?” I asked, letting my eyes glide over the mishmash of colors and shapes that covered his skin down to his wrist.

“We all have them.”

“Who’s we?”

“My brothers and me. Well, most of us. Tommy doesn’t.”

“How many brothers?”

“Four.”

“Dear God.”

He nodded, staring at whatever memory was playing before his eyes. “You have no idea.”

“Where are they? Your brothers.”

“Here and there.”

I liked this game, all questions and no answers, and he didn’t seem to mind. Taylor’s white T-shirt crumpled in the middle, thin enough to hint at his tan skin and nicely formed abs. Abs—all the assholes had them. Four to six muscles were like a graph chart to show just how big of a douche bag the guy was.

“Are you the oldest?” I asked.

“Yes and no.”

“Any sisters?”

Taylor made a face. “God, no.”

Either he hated women, or he treated them badly enough not to want to think about them as people. No matter which it was, the longer he was in my apartment, the less I worried about guilt being a problem.

“Want to watch television?” I asked.

“No.”

“Good,” I said, settling back into my chair. “I don’t have cable.”

“Got any movies?”

“Phaedra has a box of VHS tapes and a VCR in that closet,” I said, casually pointing. “But I haven’t hooked it up yet.”

“How long have you lived here?”

“A while.”

Taylor stood up, groaning as he did, and then he ambled over to the closet and opened the door. He was well over six feet tall and could see everything on the top shelf just fine. He pulled the string to turn on the light and then reached for the dusty VCR, pulling it out along with a mess of cables.

He blew off the dust and then leaned back, looking disgusted. “Pick a movie. I’m going to get this bad boy hooked up.”

“Are you bored with the stimulating conversation?”

“To death,” he said the words without apology.

Oddly, there was no hint that he was unhappy with the way things were going. He didn’t seem annoyed or even put-off, which was a relief. At least he wasn’t going to require an exorbitant amount of attention and effort.

“Aliens,” I said, pointing.

Taylor took the box over to the small television sitting on top of a two-shelf table. He sat the VCR on the bottom shelf and then began unraveling the wires. “Yeah, I like that one.”

I wrinkled my nose. “Like it? It’s a classic.”

“I saw Sixteen Candles in there. I figured you’d pick that.” He plugged a cable into the back of the VCR and then reached around the back of the television.

“Clearly, you don’t know me at all.”

“I can’t decide if you’re trying to hate me or trying to make me hate you.”

“Neither.”

Taylor made a face but only because he had to reach further to screw the cable into the proper connection. “So, I don’t.”

“You don’t what?”

“Hate you.”

“Damn,” I teased.

Taylor achieved whatever it was he had been trying to do and sat upright before stretching out his legs and crossing them, leaning his back against the wall beside the TV. “I think you hate yourself enough for the both of us.”

I felt my cheeks turn red. He didn’t know how close he’d come to the truth.

“Is that a rage coming on?” Taylor said, mistaking my embarrassment for anger.

My arm pressed against the side of the chair as I leaned forward. “You don’t have that kind of effect on me.”

He blinked. “What do you mean?”

“I’d have to give a shit about you to get angry.”

“Oh, are you analyzing now, Ivy League? I thought you said you weren’t a psych major.”

“Now, you’re just being rude.”

“Saying you’re shit at conversation and that I have a feeling you’re a judgmental bitch is rude, but I wasn’t going to take it that far. But you are … and you are.”

“Ouch.” I purposely kept my features smooth.

He shook his head, confused. “One minute, you’re reactive, and the next, I can’t get a reaction. You’re all over the place. I cannot figure you out—like, at all. And I minored in women.”

“That must get you so much ass and so many high fives from your friends. But that doesn’t impress me.”

He paused for a moment. “Do you want me to leave?”

“I don’t think so. But you can if you want.”

“I don’t want. And that’s weird for me that I have an opinion, one way or the other.”

“I’m intrigued. Continue.”

“First of all, I like that you’re awkward as fuck and that you’re a raging bitch. Girls tend to giggle and run their hands through their hair a lot when I’m around. You’ve all but told me to fuck off.”

“Fuck off.”

“See? I like you.”

“Maybe I don’t want you to like me.”

“I know. And I don’t, not like that. And I think that’s what surprises me the most.”

His revelation caught me off guard, but the twinge in the pit of my stomach surprised me even more.

“Listen, Ivy League, I’m here until October. I work my ass off all day. If I’m lucky, I work first shift, so I can eat lunch at the café. You and your hateful-ass mouth have been the highlight of this job. I think you’re just being hostile because you think I’m trying to bag you, and clearly, I’m not capable of taming the shrew in this story. So, let’s turn the volume up on Aliens, so we can’t hear that piece-of-shit washer of yours and hang out.”