The Carrero Heart - Beginning (Friends to Lovers)

Chapter 6: 6

My chest heaves with the ferocity of it and then the sudden pang of absolute fear that I just made a stupid impulsive mistake and notch this up to a code red. My body caught in a wave of icy coldness, sweeping over every limb and calming my jets. I know I pretty much just triggered a violent reaction in a guy who clearly has no issue with victimizing women.

“You little …” He jumps to his feet, a hand rising aggressively as a storm rages in his eyes, scowling furiously, and I can tell I’m about to be slapped back with pissed male aggression that will render me useless. His face is twisted in seething hatred, moving fast, and I’m suddenly powerless to do anything, paralyzed in what feels like a time pause. It’s like my body is too stunned to react and even though I see it coming, I freeze. Bracing for impact and knowing I have no chance to get out of this. I have no idea what the hell is wrong with me and it’s like I see it all happening in slow motion.

His hand is blocked with lightning speed by a muscular black-sleeved arm, appearing in front of my face in such an instant that I’m still recoiling in slow reaction. The tall, muscular body of a leather- jacketed male slides between us fully, shielding me behind him, and my whole inner self sweeps coolly with utmost relief.

Arrick’s aftershave surrounds me like a sudden familiar haven, a solid shield of pure muscle and a beacon in the dark. That wave of cold turns to tingles and internal shakes of sheer relief, my body instantly slumping and falling forwards to lean into him as the adrenaline turns me into a mess of jellified uselessness.

“I swear if you don’t turn around and walk off right now, then you’ll be taking all meals from a tube, Dickhead.” Arrick snarls in that husky Carrero tone of the most perfect male voice I’ve ever known. My boy! Like familiar soothing music that just makes you whole. Bristling with aggression and dwarfing the other man with his sheer build of alpha intimidation in all his glory.

Arrick is hitting the six-foot-one mark, maybe more nowadays, and his build has gotten a lot wider and stronger since he matured and started professional fighting. He’s a vision of physical perfection that goes so well with the face of male gorgeousness I could never find a fault in. Arrick has always been the poster boy for my idea of the perfect man. I don’t see flaws or fault in any single tiny inch of him.

I creep and twist my fingers into the back of his leather jacket, sighing with relief and letting every ounce of emotion seep away into silence with the calming presence he always is. Curling the hem in my palms and leaning myself softly against his back to breathe deeply. Resting my cheek against him, the warm soft leather and body heat, that is as welcome as his smell, seeps into me and calms me down, relaxing me fully. Secure in the protective shield he always is, and I use him to keep myself upright since my legs have started shaking. I know I’m safe; I can stop caring about everything, stop fending for myself and let him take the lead like he always does.

“Your girlfriend’s a whore!” The other man spits back. I snap up my chin and glare through Arrick’s body, even though he can’t see me behind him, and I don’t want him too. Arry tenses at the insult, willing himself not to react, to keep his cool. I know without seeing his face he’ll be a picture of complete effortless intimidation. He’s a master of composure and right now, despite all his fight cylinders firing fully, he is in control.

“Yet, she knocked you back! Says it all, buddy!” Arrick leans away from me and I know it’s to glare into the guy’s face and threaten him, all icy cool composure sweeping off him in droves. One thing he mastered young in life was how to assert authority and dominate when he needs to, and it never fails him. He has that same Carrero aggression as his father and brother, but rarely has to go beyond a threat. A look is usually enough. He has an icy manner and silent scariness.

The other man slides off, tripping over the edge of the seat before running like a scared rabbit. Arrick watches him disappear into the smoky atmosphere, deathly still for a moment as that tremor of nerves surges through me. I know that I’m probably about to get the third degree and it makes my stomach ache.

He turns towards me slowly, catching my hand behind him and pulling it so I’m drawn to face him, that mask of indifference firmly in place and eyes zoning in on mine intensely. Even though it’s dark, I know those hazel eyes will have more than a few flecks of green, sparkling in the depths. They become obvious and intense when he’s pissed. My stomach flickers again, nerves making me uneasy. My lip finds its way between my teeth nervously as the hammering of my heart returns. His eyes go to the childish gesture and he knits his brows in irritation.

“What was that?” He frowns at me, anger well hidden beneath that cool and calm exterior in which he excels, but I catch that tight tone under the silky deep depths of that smooth voice. Arrick never really lets much out publicly, he’s a guy who hates drama and making a scene, hates being overly emotional, and has only gotten so much worse since dating Natasha. The queen of proper and prude, she’s practically an emotional cripple, publicly anyway.

“A creep wanting sex.” I shrug nonchalantly, trying to pass it off and not hint at how terrified or angry I was seconds before. I still have this inability to ever let anyone see me as vulnerable and incapable in any way; even him sometimes, well lately anyway. Good old Sophie’s self-defense system at its finest.

“Sophs, this shit is getting old.” Arrick tugs me with him by the hand, turning away without waiting for more of a response and that sinking ache hits me again. His manner is all hostile, even if to the untrained eye he seems fine. He’s mad at me. Entangling fingers snugly with mine to secure me to him. Despite the nerves inside of me, I still get that warm tug of euphoria I always get with his touch; that familiar coming home as he leads the way towards the dance floor to exit this shithole.

I can only follow mutely as we are again enveloped by the worst of the body thumping noise around us when we near the source of it, making my heart thump in time to the beat and worsens the nausea that’s still lingering. I force myself to take long, deep, and even breaths to control it. My head starting to ache now the alcohol level in my blood has dwindled, even more with that tense little scene. Nothing helps sober you up like a nice little bit of nasty drama before bed.

It’s obvious he’s pissed and not his normal soothing self with calming words and tissues at the ready. I stare at his strong shoulders as we move through the crowd, him powerfully parting a path for us easily and I follow, feeling young and stupid. He has a knack for bringing it out in me when I’ve clearly misbehaved. The vibes coming off him in droves that he’s as fed up with this whole scene as I am.

My lip trembles with a new wave of emotion, eyes stinging, and I force it back down into the heavy ache in my chest, like a ball of weight, threatening to collapse my heart and lungs. Too tired to even fight it anymore.

When we get outside into the night air my legs seem to jellify, fresh air bringing back some of that swirling head mess that I thought I was losing. As he lets me go to walk ahead to the car, I stumble into the back of him clumsily. Catching my heel on an uneven paving stone as I have zero ability to avoid it. My stomach jolts and heart lurches with the sudden trip, catching his arm and the back of his jacket to stop myself eating dirt by face palming the sidewalk. Arrick catches me, turning as I go down as though sensing it, under my elbow with his fast reflexes before pulling me forward and into his arm. He wraps it around my back and waist snugly, lifting me against him like I weigh no more than a child.

His familiar body against mine brings a sense of security; a stark contrast to every male on the planet, but never him. Arry is one of the few men who get to touch me without conditions, without reaction. Something even my adopted brothers don’t have full permission to do, and my dad is only slightly better. Arry never brings on any of the uneasiness or recoiling anxiety from within. From almost day one so many years ago, he has been the only person who didn’t make me feel like they were invading my space or triggering the panic button. His touch brings only reassurance.

I mastered the sea of emotions when it comes to my male family members touching me, and often hide my reactions to cuddles and affectionate touches, to not upset them. None of them really know how I am deep down with affections that should be normal. It makes me feel ashamed and broken, so I try to ignore it, knowing that I should be able to accept a loving hug or a kiss on the cheek without a sense of deep mistrust and a heavy aching thud in my gut. But with Arrick, I have nothing to hide at all. My

complete trust in him means we could share a bed half-dressed and know he would never do anything about it. No fear, repulsion, or discomfort in his touch at all. It’s one of the reasons I’ve cried on his shoulder for years when I need support or real hugs.