“Excuse me,” his dance partner complained as she faced the person who’d interrupted them.

Tate also turned to see what the problem was, and what he saw, he couldn’t have dreamed up.

The man currently glaring at him was in no way smoldering. He was fuming mad.

Gone was the immaculate, clean-cut version of Logan he was used to, and in his place was an unshaven, sexier-than-imaginable version. And he was clearly pissed.

Holy shit.

“You needed some time, huh?” The words were full of rage as Logan glared at him.

Tate checked on the woman who was glancing between the two of them and then returned his attention to the more imminent threat—Logan. He didn’t move as Logan placed his mouth by his ear.

But instead of the sexual come-on he’d been imagining, he heard, “Feeling like a little pussy lately, huh, Tate?”

Tate turned his head so their lips were closer than acceptable for just friends, and every part of his body reacted.

Before he had the opportunity to say a word, Logan stepped away and shouted over the music, “You may want to dance a little closer than that, hun.”

Shit.

A defensive Logan was like a bull in a china shop. He didn’t stop and think about the best way to leave the situation. He just rammed into everything, to hell with what he broke or smashed along the way.

“And enjoy him while you can. Because this guy? He likes his space.”

Tate got between the two of them and put his hands up as if to calm Logan. “You done?”

“I haven’t even started.”

Tate reached out a hand to stop Logan from walking around him and stated loud enough that he’d hear, “I was going to call when I got home. You’re making a scene, so shut it, would you?”

He didn’t budge as Logan came closer, and when the strong hand he’d imagined earlier snaked down between them to cradle his stiffening cock, Logan narrowed his eyes on him.

“Want to make me? Or do you want to take this hard-on you got just by seeing me and do something useful with it instead of sticking your tongue in this woman's mouth and trying to get off?”

Tate closed his eyes as the pleasure of having Logan near him—touching him—hit him all over again. “I didn’t have my tongue in her mouth.”

Logan brought his face in close enough that the scruff on his cheek abraded his own smooth one. “Why not? She has a very nice mouth.”

Tate grabbed Logan’s arms as a low groan left his throat. He’d forgotten all about the woman and was now focused on the throbbing music that was matching time with the blood pumping through his veins.

“I wanted yours.”

“Did you?” Logan teased, flicking his tongue over his lobe. “Could’ve fooled me. Five days is a long time.”

“Was gonna call tonight,” he managed.

Logan’s teeth bit his ear, and he said, “You’re too late.”

He was released abruptly, and as quickly as Logan had appeared, he was gone.

* * *

Fuck this night. In fact, fuck this entire week.

Logan stormed out of the club and handed his ticket to the valet.

When Cole had told him Tate was down at HAZE, he’d assumed he’d find him sitting at the bar, drinking—possibly as miserable as himself.

But to walk into the club, scan the dance floor, and find him gorgeous as ever in his jeans and leather, draped all over some big-titted blonde…That was not what he’d expected to see.

So yeah, fuck this night.

Still fuming, he started tapping his foot on the concrete.

Where the hell is my car?

“Running away?”

Logan grit his teeth and turned to face the man he’d somehow known would follow him outside. “Me? You’ve got some fucking nerve, Tate. Just go back to your little lady, would you?”

Tate handed his own ticket to one of the other valets, and as he left to go and get his death mobile—no doubt—Tate moved around to stand in front of him.

“I was going to call.”

“I don’t give a fuck,” he replied, looking around—anywhere but at the temptation in front of him.

“Yes, you do.”

He was done. He was sick of wondering where the hell he stood when it came to Tate, so maybe it was time to tell him just that.

“So what if I do? Does it make you feel good knowing I waited around for you to call? You know what, step up or fuck off.”

Logan watched as Tate’s eyes widened, but he said nothing, and when his car was pulled to a stop at the curb, he walked around Tate and tipped the valet.

As he got in the car, he glanced in the rearview mirror and saw Tate climbing on the back of his bike. It had him pushing his foot hard on the accelerator.

If you want me, come fucking get me.

* * *

Tate kept his eyes on the taillights of Logan’s silver Audi R8 as he floored it through the quiet night streets. It was late, nearly midnight, and even though there was some traffic, it wasn’t enough to stop Logan from running—and him from chasing.

He watched as the car ahead of him crossed over to the outside lane and floored it up a straight stretch of road. When they came to a stop at a red light, he pulled up beside Logan and made sure to look at the tinted window. He couldn’t see in, but he knew Logan was watching him, and it was made clear when the car behind them honked at the green light they’d both missed.

Like a gunshot, Logan punched the car into gear and hurtled down the road. Tate fell back so he was following behind, and when Logan took a left, he was sure to follow.

He knew where Logan was going—home—and he had to wonder what exactly he expected would happen once they arrived.

Making a right at the final turn, Logan pulled into the drive that led them down to the underground parking, and Tate followed in after. Apparently, that was okay because the gate remained open long enough for him to drive inside.

The parking garage was quiet except for the low rumble of Logan’s engine, and when he turned into his parking spot and shut off the vehicle, Tate maneuvered his bike in to fit beside him.

He took his helmet off, placed it on the fuel tank between his thighs, and waited. His heart was hammering and his blood was rushing around his ears as Logan opened his door and got out.

He looked at him over the roof of his car and then slammed the door shut. The echo of it was thunderous in the dark garage as he made his way around the back of the car and over to him.

Tate climbed off the bike and tried to imagine what was about to go down. In his mind, it could go one of two ways.

Logan could tell him to fuck off or he could get the first word in.

He went with the latter.

“It’s rude to leave in the middle of an argument.”

“We weren’t in the middle. We were at the end,” Logan stated, stopping in front of him.

God, he looks amazing.

His black hair was slicked back, and the black pants and white shirt he was wearing paired with a suit jacket that seemed velvety to touch all came together to make Logan look like a fucking rock God—but he would not let that distract him.

“No,” Tate told him. “You got pissed off because someone didn’t do what you wanted. Someone told you no. Told you that they needed space.”

“Is that what you think?”

“It's not what I think. It’s what I know. Everyone knows that Logan Mitchell is the player. The one who never gets turned down if he wants something. I also imagine you’ve never heard the words ‘I’ll call you.’ How’d that feel?”

Tate couldn’t believe the stuff flying out of his mouth, but the more he talked, the angrier he became. He was angry that Logan would accuse him of going elsewhere, and angry that he’d question his own feelings in the first place.

“God, you’re being an asshole right now,” Logan growled as he shoved him slightly until his back was against the concrete pillar. “You made me wait for five fucking days! No phone call, no text, no ‘Hey, I still want to do this.’ Just nothing—silence. So your parents freaked the fuck out. Whose didn't? Did you expect them to greet you with open arms?”