“Wanna drink, babe?” A silvery voice catches my ear. Looking over my left shoulder, I make eye contact with a guy who stands just a few inches taller. Not bad looking, but not my type. Too preppy for my taste with his sweater, collared shirt, and oxford shoes. The glasses on his thin face aren’t helping, and to be frank, I’m surprised a squeaky-clean looking guy like him says the word ‘babe.’
I shake my head, tucking a tendril behind my ear. “No thank you, I don’t drink.”
His altar boy expression disintegrates, and a cruelness twists up his features. “Sure you don’t. That’s why you’re here.” One of his shoes drags on the floor with a step he takes—it looks too heavy for his medium build, and the way his balance teeters tells me he’s drunk. Usually I can see it in the eyes right away, but his glasses concealed it from me. “Come on, sweetheart.”
“Hey, Yale.” Cora attaches herself to my side, cutting this douche off. “You heard her, she doesn’t drink. Now go away.”
“Excuse me?” Our prep boy furrows his brow, giving Cora a confused look. “Who are you?” He looks at her clothes and wrinkles his nose. “Did you miss the rock show?”
“No.” Her purple gaze goes hard. “But you’re gonna be missing your teeth if you don’t get the hell away.”
He puts two hands up. “Fine.” Hanging his head, he saunters away. “Enjoy being average.”
I snort. Now that’s the type of insult I expect from a guy like that.
Cora releases a low scoff. “Enjoy looking like Harvard barfed on you.”
Only I hear it, but it has a laugh busting out of my chest.
“Seriously,” Cora says through a chuckle. “What is it with you and jerks? You haven’t even been here five minutes.”
My shoulders fall with a shrug. “I don’t know.” I push some of my weight against hers. “Thanks for having my back.”
“Anytime.” She takes a sip. “You feeling better from the other night? I’ve never seen you so upset.”
I push out a deflated sigh. “I think so.” I feel the lines appearing between my brows as I scowl when recalling a certain someone. “Stupid Brett.”
“Oh, Bee, you know that was an accident.” Her voice is gentle yet correcting.
“No way. He—”
“We gave him an earful for what happened.”
“What?” A sickness grabs hold of my stomach, dragging it down to my toes. I swear to God they better not have told him it belonged to my mom, because if there’s one person who shouldn’t know anything about me, it’s Brett Walker. A weak swallow washes down my throat. “You didn’t tell him—”
“That the blouse was your mom’s? You can bet your ass I did. So did Lizzie.”
Great. If I haven’t been brought down low enough already, now he’s privy to knowing my mom died.
Check. One forever single, failing author, with a dead mother and a ruined blouse . . . it sounds like a lonely hearts advertisement or the start to the worst novel ever. Nothing about my life speaks of empowerment. No wonder he looks down at me, past the end of his nose.
I wrap my arms around my middle and frown.
“Geez, don’t look so beaten down. Trust me, we got the point across for you.” One of her brows wrinkles. “He felt terrible about what happened.”
“Yeah.” The reply is weak. “I’m sure he did.” Of course he didn’t. Whatever they saw spins from the lies and fake persona Brett displayed that night. Hearing Cora’s story, it sounds like he continued to sell the show, even after I left.
Since that’s the case, I’m deciding to not push this issue right now. Calling Brett an asshole after I’m the one that had a public meltdown is not the tactic of champions. All I’ll sound like right now is defensive and bitter. I’ll save this war for another day, when I’m calm and have Cora and Lizzie all to myself.
Thinking of Lizzie makes me realize I haven’t seen her walking around, but I know she came with Cora. “Where’s Lizzie?”
Her lips flip up. “Talking to a hot guy.” She flicks a long finger to the opposite corner of the room. “See?”
Ducking my head, I peer past the gathered bodies and through the blue lights. There’s an area filled with black sofas. Sure enough, Lizzie giggles it up, looking mega hot in a red bodycon dress that shows off more leg than what she’s usually brave enough to wear. The dude? Totally her type. Lean, tall, and tawny with a built-in surfer look. She’s probably in heaven.
Like we’re reading each other’s minds, Cora and I bump arms at the same time and glance at one another.
“What d’ya say?” Cora rakes through the top of her hair. “Think we should let them be?”
I slowly nod. “Absolutely.”
That’s what we do. Cora and I hang around each other, just mingling with the crowd in the front part of the lounge. We enjoy the drum of music, harmony of lights, and the natural excitement in the air. Most of our company is people from our cabin—the nice ones. Brett is nowhere and thank goodness for that.
After an hour, I’m certain my bladder is about to pop. “Where are the bathrooms?”
“Mmm.” Cora finishes her third and final drink for the night. She never has over three. “Past the bar, into the second room. Walk straight, then a sharp left before the pool tables.”
“Thanks.” I slide past and make my merry way.
The second room spans out like a football field, one littered with recreational fun. More dim ambient lighting acts like a haze. It’s hard to see every detail, but there’s a lot more people in here. Most are just talking, holding pool cues in hand if they’re standing by the billiards area, or a drink if occupying the sleek bar to my left.
The bar is the area I’m skirting past when a familiar voice catches my ear.
“Sugar?”
Smacking face first into a concrete wall couldn’t stop my momentum more. I’m actually wondering if my feet are tacked to the carpet as I look over my shoulder. My heart bottoms out, not stopping its fall until it hits the floor. It’s Lance.
My ex.
This dude is the reason I’ve decided to stay single for life. Talk about good things not lasting. Somehow he bundled me so tight in his deceit that I couldn’t see him for what he was. A cheater who was using my cash to spoil other girls and then spending the weekends professing his love to me.
A large scar of pain lays across the span of my heart, all because of this snake—one who, even now, has me wondering why I wasn’t enough. I’ll never admit it, but having him near and knowing we’re forever apart makes my soul reverberate with an emptiness and the bitter reminder that relationships end in heartbreak.
My nails bite into my palm, but my voice is weak. “Lance.”
“Thought that was you.” He climbs out of his stool, staggering to one side with a step. He’s gained more weight since he broke up with me, but he still looks comfortable. Normal. Easy going. His relaxed blonde hair and penetrating hazel eyes always had a way of unlocking me and my tongue.
But I can’t trust him. He may look the same, but I’ve tasted him for what he really is. I’ll never open up to him again. Not even as he stops in front of me and gives me a glimmering once over. It’s familiar since I always witnessed it right before he’d drag me off to bed.
Tonight, I’m retracting from it by taking a shuffle back.
“You look amazing.” His voice flows like honey, but I know it’s a web of entanglement. After he broke up with me, he went all over town claiming I’d come running back to him if he made an offer. I think I’m experiencing that talk right now.
Rolling my shoulders back, ice coats my heart. “Good night, Lance.” I manage one step when his hand latches around my wrist.
“Don’t be like that.” An attempt to back away fails. He tugs me toward him and he’s always been deceptively strong. I stumble forward. “All my friends are here. I want to show them the hottie I used to dick down.”
“You’re drunk.” The stench of alcohol swirls up my nostrils with each word he utters.<
br />
“Drunk on you.” His hand grips around my waist, pressing into the fabric of my shirt, clenching deep in my corset. I feel his heated hand through it all. A slither coils down my spine at how his touch hasn’t changed.
My heart teeters on a dangerous edge, wanting to fall and experience Lance again, but Dad’s words mingle in, breaking up the strange craving racing through my skin. Nothing lasts. This might mark the first time I re-loop the saying in a positive way—because I’m no fool. If I go crawling back to Lance, he’ll be sleeping with someone else the next day.
After taking a deep breath, I attempt to free my hands. He washes away my desires for him when his grip tightens so hard his fingers crunch against my bones. A fire erupts at the base of my stomach. “Let go.” The heated anger tingling through me fuels my voice and my glare.
Too bad it explodes right in my face.
“Don’t be like that, Bianca.” There’s no time to think. His free hand threads through my hair at the base of my skull, and his lips collide on top of mine.
I squirm against him, striking at his chest in futile attempts to break free. He’s rougher than I remember, and I despise it. Plus, the taste of the Jack he’s been hitting reminds me of Dad’s tainted breath. I want to cry as nausea roils in my stomach while I hear his friends hoot and holler. I raise a foot off the ground, preparing to kick his shin.
Turns out I don’t have to.
A hard thunk vibrates in the air. Lance’s hold vanishes. I spring, sky high.
A large hand connects with his chest, shoving him away. His eyes widen. He stumbles over his Timberlands, unable to catch himself. Sailing back, there’s a thud as he lands flat on his ass, wincing with the connection of the floor.
“WHAT the fuck are you doing? Who the fuck are you?” The question is a pissed off growl . . . but I can still identify it.
No way. It wouldn’t be him. It couldn’t be. But when I crane my head back, my mouth dries up.
Brett Walker is standing beside me, looming over my ex, jaw and fists clenched, eyes black as night. He looks angry enough to commit murder, and when he speaks again, his tone has my heart binding in my throat.
“I’m not going to ask again, fucker.” He points a finger toward Lance. “Who the fuck are you and why are you kissing my girlfriend?”
Chapter 9
“Girl—girlfriend?” Lance’s voice squeaks, and his eyes grow wider.
“That’s what I said.” Brett settles beside me. “You stupid, ugly, and deaf?” If my world wasn’t rocking already, he goes further, blowing up my universe when he gathers me in his left arm.
The frame I drooled over a few days ago is nestling up to mine. Our hips and thighs collide and rub in all the ways they shouldn’t, yet I shift against him once more, enjoying how he melds to me. More than that, how he sends my pulse rattling down my throat.
Lance climbs to his feet and scowls. “I’ve never seen you before.”
“That’s not what I asked, fuckface.” Brett repositions his hold, hooking his thumb on the waistband of my jeans. His large fingers grip into my thigh, and he vacuums us together. “I asked why you were kissing my girlfriend.”
My pulse sings at the connection and the words. This isn’t right. I should hate it, loathe it—instead I curl into Brett, claiming his natural heat as my own. When the fragrance of fresh soap descends, a shiver travels downward and lands in my center. Disliking him isn’t possible. At least not right now.
My eyes shutter closed for a brief moment. He feels . . . perfect, and nothing about his touch is light. It’s weighted, like he could pin me down with one hand and master me in whatever way he pleases. Holy crap. My skin heats at the thought.
I know there’s lust swirling in my vision when I clash eyes with Lance. I also discern Lance sees it and understands he’s not the cause of it. One of my brows arches. “What’s the matter, Lance? Didn’t think I could do better than you?”
He opts for an open-mouth stare.
Cocking my head to the side, I smile. “People upgrade, you know.”
Brett’s body quakes with a deep, smooth laugh, and it’s the most sin-filled thing I’ve heard yet.
The sound has me grinding the side of my tit into his ripped torso. A spontaneous gesture that’s definitely rooted in lust, and he responds in kind. A dark moan rumbles out. It’s hardly audible, but I feel the workings it makes in his chest all the way to my damn core. He shifts, forcing the connection again, and my frame arches into him. When we both smile, I know we’re in trouble.
Shit. I’m liking this far too much. Liking him in a way that’s unhealthy.
Thankfully, Lance breaks up our charade with his whine-filled voice. “You’ll never get over me.” Spite cracks in his harsh stare. “Nobody knows you like I do. Nobody.”
“Yeah.” Brett’s doubt-filled voice beats any reply I can form. “Sorry.” He tsks his tongue. “But I can guarantee she’s not thinking about you at night. Not from the way she says my name.”
My cheeks flare with heat, but there’s no time for me to respond.
“Fuck you—” Fire erupts in Lance’s eyes and red hues splotch across his face. Clenching his fist, he hurls it back and unloads.
SMACK
Brett stops the punch, midair, with his palm.
He does it without moving an inch. He does it, keeping his thumb hooked in my jeans and not flinching. It’s the most badass thing I’ve seen.
Lance gasps, then winces.
It happens when Brett closes his hand, locking Lance’s fist inside. His knuckles whiten and a crunch crackles in the air.
My blood stops when a few of Lance’s friend’s clamor to their feet. I can’t swallow while picturing the fight that’s probably about to break out.
Brett’s hand finally falls off me as he shoves against Lance.
Once again, my ex tumbles head over boots, unable to control his landing. This time he groans. I’m sure his tailbone is going to feel the aftereffects tomorrow.
Brett faces the group of friends. His figure dominates the room as he plants his feet on the ground in a wide stance and places his hands around his hips. He stares each man in the eye, going down the line, his gaze pure black. “Anyone else want a taste, and in which order? One at a time, or all at once?”
The friends must sense the danger in him, just like I did. Do. They shake their heads in what looks like forced disinterest and mutter “no.” It doesn’t take them long to retreat to their seats and pick up their drinks.
Brett looks at me. His hand extends and my pulse springs alive as he drapes his arm around me.
Sparing one more look to Lance, he points his finger downward. “Touch her again and I’ll snap you like a fucking twig.” The growl and threat sounds real.
I notice the hard swallow Lance takes, and then we’re leaving.
Brett pushes us through the crowd, his hand at the small of my back. We exit the pool hall area. When we cross into the main room, we don’t stop. Brett moves in front of me and his hand grabs around my wrist. Thanks to how tightly he’s wound me up, I’m anticipating the hottest exchange of my life.
He tugs me behind him. My shorter legs struggle to keep up with his longer strides and by the time we reach the front entrance and step outside, I’m a little winded, the cold stinging my lungs while I muffle my gasps for oxygen.
Frosty air encapsulates me as I’m twirled around. After catching my bearings, I discover I’ve been spun so my back is against the brick building and Brett is in front of me.
The burning attachment that linked us in the lounge dies to ash as he frees me from his grip and scowls. The hardness returns all too fast. “Consider that an apology.” His dark voice threads with a frigid chill, and he looks pissed.
“Apology?” My head tilts. “For what?”
“For the shirt.” He smacks his hands on his thighs and grunts. “Fuck. How was I supposed to know you were sentimental and wore your dead mother’s stuff?”
Irritation flares up
in my veins. Man, he knows how to ruin a moment. I cinch my arms across my chest and give him a deadened stare. “Wow.” My tone matches my face. “How touching. I just adore the heartwarming way you said that.”
He rakes his hand through the sides of his hair and laughs. “I don’t warm hearts. I was made for fucking over people who stand in my way.” After the laugh dies, his top lip pulls up. “What you did was make me feel bad, and I fucking hate it when people do that.”
“Oh, boy.” My vision goes skyward. “Having a conscience is a terrible thing, isn’t it?”
“Gwad . . .” He breaks away, paces in front of me, and scrubs over his face. “Would you please get out of my head?”
“Your head?” My face wrinkles in disgust, and I kick myself for loving the way I felt in his arms. Why did I enjoy him? There’s nothing to enjoy. He’s harsh, crass, and rude. “I’m just a desperate writer, remember? So please, tell me how I’m in your head.”
Coming to a stop, he pockets his hands and huffs through his nose. “You.” He gives me a side eye glance. A ghost of a smile presses up his mouth, but it battles against the frustration I see snapping in his gaze.
He takes a deep breath, then pushes it out. “You know, Mom used to read romance books. Dad always said they were garbage and probably written by lonely, abandoned women.” His eyes rake over me in a slow fashion, starting at my feet. When he reaches my gaze, he scoffs. “I’d say the stereotype is right.”
I should walk away, but it’s too easy. Cruel words don’t cut me—they fuel me. I learned that about me with my dad. I’d rather dish back what he’s serving and be granted more frustration. With anger bristling up and down my spine, I stand up straighter, pulling myself as high as possible. “Then I bet your stereotype fits the mold, too. It’s pretty common, you know. My kind writes about it all the time.”
“Really? And what stereotype is that?”
“Hmm.” I take him in, ignoring how my head is starting to hurt. There’s a tender spot forming behind my left eye, but I shove it aside and focus on the vexation in front of me. The bare arms, the medium length wispy hair, the tattoos and natural scowl. Drawing conclusions of him isn’t hard.
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