Текст книги "The Singles"
Автор книги: Emily Snow
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Chapter 11
Oliver’s mouth seized mine, issuing a seductive challenge that I wasn’t about to back down from. I leaned into him, breathed him in, tasting the flavor of vodka intermingling with scotch as our tongues moved together. He released one of my wrists, immediately cupping my neck. Electricity hummed through my fingers, through every part of my body rubbing his, but I managed to bring my trembling hand to the lapel on the left side of his jacket.
His fingertips snagged a few stray strands of my hair when he tilted my head further back, and a low moan escaped my throat. He made a noise like he was about to say something, but then he released an impatient groan and deepened the kiss, his tongue driving me half-crazy with desire as it tormented my mouth.
My body wanted him. My body wanted to feel the weight of his pressed against it, the slick of his sweat mixing with mine.
Loosening his grip on my other wrist, he trailed his palm down the exposed skin of my back to settle on the curve of my ass, and I grabbed his other lapel. I wanted to rip the designer jacket off of him, to hear the fabric rending beneath my grasp, to see my costume on his floor tomorrow morning.
I wanted him.
He drew my back away from the door, his lips never breaking their sensual hold over mine. Somewhere in the back of my mind, I registered that the song had changed to Puscifer’s toe-curling “Rev 22-20,” but I didn’t realize his intentions until our bodies grinded together.
Dancing.
Dear God. He was dancing with me. Dancing and kissing me and taking away all my good sense.
When the chorus started, he tore our mouths apart, and though my lids were still closed, I could feel his blue eyes penetrating me. “I have to leave once this song finishes.”
What? Opening my eyes slowly, I stared up at him, noticing the strained expression on his face. “You’re leaving,” I repeated sluggishly.
“Don’t look at me like that,” he growled, sounding tortured. “I came here tonight to tell you in person that I’ll be in New York on business for the next week. I’m flying out in a few hours.”
“So you came here to get me all turned on, just to tell me you were leaving?” The frustration in my voice was palpable, and I swallowed hard. “That’s so messed up.”
“Almost as fucked up as you avoiding my calls for the last two days,” he countered, causing me to release my hold on his jacket and step away from him. I was angry enough to hit him—or drag him onto that loveseat with me—and I didn’t trust myself enough to be within breathing distance. “Come here, Lizzie,” he ordered.
I shook my head. “Your mother is giving a speech in a couple minutes, and I’m sure she’ll be freaking—”
“Come here.” He jerked me against his body, shushing my words with his mouth as his hands resumed their spot on my back and neck. I loved and hated the way he could kiss me speechless, and when he pulled away, all I could do was trace my tongue over my lips. He’d left me that affected.
With my dating history—my real life, not the fantasy I exuded every time I met a client—I’d kissed and had been kissed more times than I cared to admit, and I thought I’d felt every emotion that came with the act.
I was wrong.
Not only was the frustration still echoing through me, but the aching pull of longing dragged through my body, pooling between my thighs, and I couldn’t breathe—couldn’t think—as he held me to him.
“I didn’t plan on bringing you up here. But when I saw you—” Pausing, he let out a laugh that was just a touch remorseful. “—nobody else in that room existed.”
My lips parted to speak, but his hand on my nape moved around and covered my mouth. “Don’t talk, Lizzie. Don’t argue. Just let me hold you.”
There were so many things I wanted to say to him, to ask him, but instead, I pulled in a deep breath and kept quiet. Our gazes stayed locked as we moved in rhythm to the sexy lyrics. Finally, the song faded away, and I dropped my hands from his jacket again. Backing away from him, I fisted handfuls of chiffon fabric.
It was the only way I wouldn’t try to touch him.
“When will you be back?” I asked, tuning out the fact that Margaret was being introduced to a round of applause downstairs.
“Next Friday night.” He closed the space between us again, hovering one of his hands over the side of my face, like he was fighting the urge to feel me too. “And that’s when I’m having you for dinner.”
“Dinner or sex?” I heard myself question.
The most delicious smile stretched his face, making it impossible not to stare at his mouth. I shouldn’t want to taste him this badly. “Apparently you weren’t listening, beautiful. I said I was having you for dinner.”
An image of him naked raced through my thoughts, and I squeezed my thighs together. “When do you need an answer by?” I asked, barely managing to keep my voice cool and unaffected.
He walked past me toward the door, pausing just a moment to inhale my scent. My pulse sped up. “I didn’t ask you a question.”
I spun around to face him with my arms crossed over my chest. “What?”
“Because of the current state of your panties. Because, when I was holding you a few minutes ago, you whispered more.” He unlocked the door, and my disappointment reached a zenith. He was really leaving. “You’ve already given me your answer, Lizzie, and by this time next week, you’ll be too busy coming to ask for more.”
I hadn’t realized I said anything while we were dancing, and a flush tingled up my neck and face. “Is that a challenge?”
“That’s a promise.” Yanking me to him, he spun me around so that I was right where we started—with my back slammed up against the wall. His strong fingers pulled my dress up, until the blue chiffon was bunched around my hips, and he held it in place with one hand. “This—” He smiled wickedly, and my sex throbbed with anticipation. “This is a challenge.”
He skimmed his finger beneath my seamless Victoria’s Secret panties, pushing them aside. Giving me a meaningful look, he touched me, circling his knuckle around the slickness he found between my thighs.
“This,” he murmured appreciatively, flicking my clit, “This is a beautiful thing.”
I gasped, bucking my hips against his hand. “I have to go back to the party.” Despite the blood rushing to my ears, I could vaguely hear Margaret’s speech taking place downstairs. “You know that, don’t you?”
“I know.” But he squeezed my center between his knuckles, sliding his fingers back and forth until I was grasping at him wildly, pulling wherever my hands made contact. One of the buttons on his shirt popped off, landing on the floor between our feet. “Trust me, I hate to leave you.”
“Then you shouldn’t be doing this,” I moaned, feeling the pressure building already. It was too fast. Too soon. Forcing myself to resume some self-control, I put my hand between our bodies, grabbing his hardness roughly through his dress pants. He sucked in a breath between his teeth. “Tell me the truth; is this a challenge for me or you?” I rasped as he continued to stroke my pussy.
Ignoring my question, he teased me until I was at the point of breaking, and as soon as I did, he drowned out my sob of pleasure with his mouth. His tongue spread my lips apart, hot and demanding, as the orgasm rocked my body.
I was still trembling, still such a whimpering mess when our mouths parted that I wouldn’t have heard his answer had he not pressed his lips right to my ear. “It’s a challenge for us both, beautiful. While I’m gone, all you’ll think about is how that would’ve felt if it had been my cock instead.”
I felt my panties shimmying down my legs, and I swallowed hard as I realized he planned to take them with him. Wearing a satisfied smirk, he let the skirt of my dress fall into place as he stuffed my underwear into his pocket.
“And I’ll think of nothing but this.” He brought his wet knuckles to his lips and traced his tongue over them, skimmed his teeth over his own skin. My sex quaked as I pictured myself shoving his face between my thighs, his mouth taking the place of his fingers.
“This is a cruel challenge,” I whispered, but he bent his head and touched his lips to mine.
“That’s the point. Goodnight, Lizzie,” he drawled against my mouth. Then, before I could stop him, he was gone.
*
I stumbled into my apartment a few minutes after midnight, hot and bothered and without panties, thanks to Oliver and his expert hands. All the lights were off, including the guest bedroom that Pen was crashing in, and I was glad my best friend wasn’t around to witness my slow burn tonight. She would immediately guess that Oliver was behind my frustration, and I probably wouldn’t hear the end of it.
Yawning, I wiggled out of my costume and draped it over the chair beside my bed. I stared at the chiffon creation longer than necessary, Oliver’s words from earlier that evening churning in my brain—“Whether it’s your Khaleesi getup on my floor or one of those delicious little dresses you prance around Emerson & Taylor in, you and I will fuck.”
He’d said that to me wearing a confident little grin, even though he had no plans whatsoever for us to spend tonight together. And that infuriated me. As selfish as it was to admit, other than uncovering the details surrounding my father’s death and figuring out who’d called me five months ago, spending the entirety of my twenty-fourth birthday in Oliver Manning’s bed was one of the few wishes I had this year.
And now he was gone for the next week.
“Screw you, Oliver,” I muttered, stalking into the small, private bathroom on the far side of my bedroom. Twisting on the faucet in the stand-up shower, I stood beneath the hot water and watched the steam make the bathroom foggy. I showered slowly, tracing my fingers carefully over the parts of my body that he had touched.
Closed my eyes and pictured it was his hands all over me instead of my own.
Eventually, when the water ran cold, I wrapped myself in a towel and padded into my bedroom. Dressing quickly, I slid between the cool sheets. And I finally accepted the fact that I was sleeping alone tonight.
*
The bouncing sensation that came from someone jumping on my mattress shook me awake the next morning. Shooting straight up in bed, my gaze landed on boobs and then a mane of brown hair whipping into my face and hers when Pen slammed down on the pillow next to me.
“You scared the hell out of me!” I held my hand firmly against my throbbing chest. “Nothing’s wrong, is there?”
She batted her eyelashes. “Happy birthday, Gemma Emerson.”
It was sad—I’d heard the name Lizzie so much lately, being called by my real name was a bit of a shock to my system, but I quickly recovered. “Thanks.” I rubbed my hand over my face. “What time is it?”
“Nine-fifteen.”
Shit. Work. Margaret was going to have my head on a silver platter if I wasn’t in her office with her usual scalding hot cup of bullshit in fifteen minutes, and since I’d be lucky to make it out my apartment by that time, I was screwed.
Scrambling off my bed, I started for my closet.
Pen stopped me by getting up and literally barring me with her curvy body.
“What are you doing?” I demanded, stepping around her.
“The stepmonster called half an hour ago. She woke up this morning and decided she wanted to go to some spa in Ojai, but she said she would send you a to-do list.”
Pausing in the doorway to the walk-in closet, I turned to look at her, tapping my bare toes against the laminate floor. “You answered my phone?”
Throwing herself on the bed, Pen eased back on her elbows and stared across the room at me. “Well, I tried to wake you up first, but when it looked like your loud-ass snores weren’t stopping, I pretended to be you. By the way, she didn’t notice.”
My mouth slack in disbelief, I dropped down in the chair by my bed and buried my face in my hands. “Ugh, I’m probably the most ill-informed personal assistant in history.” I moved my head from either side. “She tells me everything last minute. Not that I’m complaining about that today—I could definitely use a day away from her.”
While I hadn’t consumed enough alcohol to get drunk last night, my head was reeling, and every few seconds my attention snapped to the costume draped on the armrest beside me—a reminder of what hadn’t happened. It was a bittersweet memory that coaxed goose bumps across the surface of my skin.
“Plus it’s your birthday.” The mattress creaked, and then I heard the suggestive smile in her voice as she asked, “So ... how was your night?”
I wasn’t ready to talk about Oliver, not when my body reacted so easily to the mere mention of his name and the sight of the dress he’d pushed around my hips, so I decided to focus on his mother—my stepmother.
I combed my hands through my pale blond hair before pushing the tangled locks behind my ears. “They made a lot of money, and I found out Margaret is matching all donations with a giant charitable endowment to the foster program.” Rolling my eyes, I released a harsh laugh. “As much as I want to hate her, she makes it a little bit difficult when she does things like that.”
At Penelope’s sudden quietness, wariness pulled my features into a tight frown. “Is everything alright?” I questioned.
“Better than alright,” she promised, but her tight smile made my chest constrict. “But I should probably let you get ready to get started on the she-devil’s list.” She hopped off the bed, starting toward my door. “You don’t have any birthday plans for this weekend, do you?”
I rolled my eyes. “Of course I do, because everyone here knows it’s my birthday.”
Pen’s forced smile turned into a very genuine grin. “Just making sure.”
*
An hour later, I walked through the lobby of Emerson & Taylor, feeling my cheery smile at having the day all to myself slowly slip away as I approached Carl at the security desk. The pitying look he gave me was undeniable, and I shifted uncomfortably as I handed him my employee ID.
He scanned it quickly but before he handed it back to me, he moved his shiny head a couple inches closer to mine. “I thought you deserved to know,” he said in a grave voice, “Mrs. Emerson has been upstairs for two hours, and she’s called down here three times already, wanting to know if you were here yet.”
I felt my heart sink as I tossed the badge down in my bag. What the hell happened with Margaret going on a spa retreat?
“Thanks for the heads-up!” Giving Carl a grateful, shaky smile, I turned the corner.
As I waited for the elevator with a woman I recognized as the HR receptionist, I kept my appearance calm as I texted Pen.
I thought you said Margaret wouldn’t be here. Security just let me know she’s been in her office for over an hour waiting for me.
My best friend responded a few seconds after the other woman got off on the second floor. Check your phone log. She definitely called.
Biting the inside of my lip, I went to my call history. Just as Pen had promised, the very first call on the list came from Margaret. She’d contacted me at 8:49 AM from her home phone number, and her call with my best friend had apparently lasted for just one minute, ten seconds.
So what was going on?
Rubbing my palms down the front of my A-line houndstooth dress, I walked tentatively into Margaret’s office, my legs wobbly inside of my black knee-high boots. She was on the phone, but that didn’t stop her from jabbing her red-manicured finger to the seat in front of her desk.
“...Monday morning is not good enough, Mr. Harding, I need it sent now,” she barked. “Then email me the document and I’ll sign and fax it right back over.” Slamming the phone down, she focused her undivided attention on me, her icy features contorted into a harsh expression.
God, this was not going to be good.
“Where the hell were you this morning?” she demanded sharply. “You’re an hour late, and in all honesty, I’ve needed you since I stepped foot into this goddamn building at eight.”
From what both Carl and Margaret had told me, she’d been inside her office for the majority of the morning. There was no way she could have called me at 8:49 from her house like my call log was showing me. Although I hated pointing fingers, it didn’t take many guesses to figure out who might have called me from my father’s old house.
Still, I couldn’t accuse Finley because I had a feeling Margaret would lose her shit. From what I could see, my boss worshiped Oliver’s ex, even if he had moved on.
“Where were you?” she repeated through clenched teeth. Before I could answer, she twisted her laptop around so I had a clear view of the screen. A popular L.A. based lifestyle-and-entertainment website was pulled up, and the headline read Emerson & Taylor Charity Gala Nets Record Contributions. That was a good thing, wasn’t it?
But then my eyes dipped down and I saw the photo that accompanied the article. Even though my face was completely obscured because the picture was captured from Oliver’s side while we waited together for a drink, it was obvious to anyone in attendance that the woman beside him was me. The blond hair and flowing aqua-blue costume made sure of that.
Reading the caption beneath the photo, my heart felt like it had lodged in my throat. The Bad Boy Next Door Meets the Mother of Dragons – Oliver Manning of Manning Hotel Group and guest attends the Emerson & Taylor Costume ball last night.
When I swallowed hard, Margaret smirked and turned her laptop back around to face her. “Let me ask you again, where were you this morning, Ms. Connelly? Because if it was with my son, you can pack your belongings and leave this office now.”
Chapter 12
“I woke up alone. And I went to bed alone,” I said honestly, struggling to keep my voice even. I prayed she hadn’t noticed my disappearance during her speech last night, but if she mentioned it, I was prepared to make up any excuse necessary to keep my job.
“You understand, of course, how suspect it looks that you were with my son—whom I had no idea even came to the party—and then you were late to work this morning.”
“Mr. Manning spoke to me briefly last night to let me know how impressed he was with the event, which was obviously when this photo was taken.” There was a fine line between dismissive and defensive, and I was balancing precariously on the edge. Releasing a laugh, I shrugged one of my shoulders in a flippant motion. “The media adores him, and they look for any opportunity to get his picture. No matter who’s standing in the way.”
My boss digested what I said for a long moment, slitting her light blue eyes. At last, she leaned back in her chair and tapped her fingers against her thin lips softly. Her gaze focused distractedly on something behind me, but I kept my shoulders squared and my eyes on her face.
“Oliver doesn’t always have the best taste in women. Obviously, you understand why I’m so protective over my son?”
There was nothing quite like being told I was a mother’s worst nightmare for her son—and on my birthday, of all days. I straightened my back painfully. “I’m sorry to hear that. And of course I understand.”
Sighing, she moved her head, her wavy highlighted hair swishing around her narrow face. “My husband was the same way.”
My stomach lurched painfully. Was she talking about my father or Oliver’s dad? I searched her distant expression, wishing she’d say more, all the while knowing it was impossible for me to ask. After the way we’d started this morning, I felt like my job was hanging on by a thread already. Pissing her off would probably put an end to my Los Angeles pilgrimage.
Plus, something about her demeanor today seemed ... off. I couldn’t put my finger on it, but her typical icy behavior was mixed with another emotion that made her fidgety and unfocused.
“Again, I’m sorry to hear that,” I said cautiously, and she snapped her head in my direction.
“I’m going to tell you this now because I’m sure you’ve probably heard the water cooler chatter before—Greg Emerson and I were engaged twice.”
Actually, I’d never heard that before, and my body automatically angled forward. Pushing away from her glass desk, she walked over to the window behind her and stared down. Splaying her hand out on the glass, she snorted.
“The first time, he let some gold-digging Russian whore turn his head.”
My mouth fell open, but I immediately snapped it shut. Still, I felt the blood rushing to my face. At first, I wondered if I’d been found out. Then I observed the smug look on my stepmother’s face.
No, she didn’t realize who I was. The only thing she knew was that she wanted to shame me. And though I knew for certain I wasn’t a parasite, the words hit so close to home they stung.
I’d worked in the adult industry since I was eighteen—first as a phone sex operator before I even lost my virginity, and then as an escort named “Alice” for the last three years—and I’d heard the words gold-digger and whore thrown at me only once. It was permanently embedded in my mind.
It had happened about a year ago, and I still remembered the jolt that snapped through my body when the guy—the CEO of a bank—went from calling me exquisite to every negative name in the book after I’d refused to snort coke and have sex with him.
I’d held in all emotion as I’d gathered my stuff from his hotel suite and listened to him rant about what a horrible review he planned on giving my agency, but as soon as the cab let me off at my apartment, I broke down.
Mentally replaying what Margaret said in my thoughts once more, I felt like gasoline was being thrown over the fire already raging within me. Because as I heard her snippy gold-digging Russian whore jab, it dawned on me she not only insulted me, she’d also obviously called out my mom.
Although my father’s first wife had never been mentioned when I was younger, I knew that she was an American woman—the heiress to a South Carolina-based furniture company. It had ended amicably in the early seventies—two years after it started—and she and my dad hadn’t felt the need to stay in touch.
My mom had been my father’s second wife.
She’d only been twenty when they met, a model hired for one of Emerson & Taylor’s spring campaigns, and I could still remember my dad staring at her affectionately, telling me that she was the most beautiful woman he’d ever seen.
My mom was not some money-chasing Russian anything.
She had been everything to me.
“I’m not calling you a gold-digger, Ms. Connelly. I just want you to know I’m very concerned about who my son dates.” She sat back down across from me, and I fisted my hands in my lap. “While I may not be able to discourage him from some of his other—” She wrinkled her turned-up nose. “—conquests, I can at least make sure my assistant isn’t sleeping with him.”
Conquests.
It took an exhausting amount of effort not to reach across the desk and tell Margaret my mom was Ukrainian, not Russian. That even though she wasn’t perfect, she certainly hadn’t been a gold-digger. That, had the roles been reversed, my mom would have never turned Oliver away, offering him a settlement in exchange for him disappearing from her life.
That I wasn’t a goddamn conquest.
Blinking back the tears that punched at my eyelids, I stretched my lips into a smile that broke my heart. “Luckily, your husband came to his senses,” I replied, and Margaret sneered. “And even luckier, I have no interest in Oliver or his wealth. I’m sorry that I was late, but I value my job too much to—”
Margaret held up her hand, cutting off the partial lie. “I’ve got it, Ms. Connelly.” Tightening her mouth, she gestured at the door. “Since you failed to bring my coffee earlier, I’ll take a large now.”
*
I’d never been a crier. When I was a little girl and had gotten hurt, or when a boyfriend had ended things with me as an adult, I never let the tears fall. My father had instilled that in me. Before my parents split up, my dad had always gently reminded me that tears solved nothing. It was better to face whatever problem I had directly with a clear head. As I drove home from work that evening, though, a hot path of tears flowed freely down my cheeks, landing on the front of my black and white dress, making it difficult for me to see.
This was the second time I’d flat-out cried since all the lies began five months ago, and it was a culmination of every emotion hurtling through me today. Frustration at the fact I had yet to figure out everything I came to California for, rage at what Margaret had said about my mother earlier, and anger at Finley Scott for the bullshit joke that had helped spawn my boss’ tirade.
Shame, for the first time, over the job I’d started to make ends meet.
And confusion and lust and dizziness because of Oliver.
He was quickly getting into my head, occupying an increasing space in my thoughts. After parking in my usual spot in the apartment garage, I rested my forehead on the black leather steering wheel. “Get a grip,” I warned myself, rubbing the tears from my face with the back of my hands. “Get a grip before you lose everything for just a few hours of sex.”
Even if those few hours could be the intense explosion Oliver’s fingers and mouth had promised.
Heading up to my apartment, I threw my bag and keys on the foyer table and released a groan as I walked toward the dining room, where Pen had been practically living ever since she and August started their secret project.
“I swear that woman is a four-letter word that rhymes with runt, and—”
“Gemma, look who’s here!” she shouted.
I froze a few feet from the table at the sight of a tall man sitting with Pen. Lifting her face, she gave me an apologetic look and mouthed, “I tried to call you.”
“What the hell are you doing here?” I demanded. Bearded, with a dark buzz cut that I knew grew out into curls, Linc Connelly was probably the best thing I’d laid eyes on all day.
He stood up, holding his arms out wide. “I wasn’t going to miss your birthday,” he announced when I nearly knocked him over tackling him. He wrapped me up tightly, keeping our crotches from touching as he smooshed his lips to my cheek in a brotherly kiss. When he leaned me away from him, his smooth forehead was wrinkled.
“You’ve been crying.”
I brushed my fingers over the spot where his lips touched, finding it slightly damp. In my periphery, I saw Pen’s face screw up in concern, and although I’d probably tell her everything later, it wasn’t possible to say anything with Linc standing nearby.
In a day full of excuses, what could one more hurt?
“I poked myself in the eye with my mascara,” I said. “So, no, you don’t have to shoot anyone today, Agent Connelly.”
I shot him the mandatory dirty look, and he stifled a laugh. “You shouldn’t put on makeup and drive.”
“But,” Pen chimed in loudly from behind us, and we both looked at her, “you should probably get dressed.”
“Penelope,” I groaned, and she scratched the peacock on her left shoulder and grinned sheepishly.
“I didn’t know he was coming, and there’s no way I’m cancelling our plans.” Hopping up from the table, she wiggled her eyebrows at her brother. “Sorry, Asshat, but it looks like you’re DD tonight.”
*
A couple hours later, I swirled my beer, watching as my best friend danced against a redheaded guy beneath the flashing lights at the appropriately named Club Chaos. The line waiting out front had stretched around the corner, and though she’d explained to her brother and me that she’d had our names on the list for weeks, I had a feeling she’d used her special skills to get us a spot tonight.
Linc had given her a ghost of a smile, but it was obvious he wasn’t buying her excuse either.
“When does your friend come back to town?” he asked me, dragging my focus from the dance floor. I had no idea the extent of what his sister had told him about our stay in California, and I rested my elbows on the table.
“By Christmas, I hope.”
“You plan on coming home then, even if he’s not back.”
“Maybe.”
He placed his own elbows on the table and leaned in close to me, his jade green eyes dancing with amusement. “Did Penelope let you know, she told me you were out here apartment-sitting for one of your female colleagues?”
Dammit. I hated lying to him—loathed it almost as much as not giving Pen the entire truth—and I felt like shit when I offered him a hesitant smile. “Maybe I didn’t want you to worry about me. Did you stop to think that might be why I asked her to tell you that?”
He wore a skeptical look when he rested his shoulders to the red leather booth. “What’s she up to, Gem?”
“I’m sorry?”
“I know my sister like the back of my damn hand. I can tell when she’s up to something.”
“Calm your tits, Agent Connelly,” I teased, sounding so much like Pen that he couldn’t help but grin. “She’s not up to anything besides working like crazy on some new software her company’s launching next year.”
A lot of that was the truth. Although I had no idea what she was doing for August, I knew she’d been doing legitimate work for her job back in Vegas.
Tilting his head to the side, Linc scratched his scruffy chin. “You know I’ll always help both of you,” he said carefully, and I rolled my eyes theatrically in response so that he’d see it beneath the dark booth lighting. “Are you sure my sister’s not into anything sketchy?”
“She’s being perfectly—” To my relief, Pen picked that exact moment to shimmy over to our booth and slam down next to her brother. “Having fun?”
“Not as much fun as if you were dancing with me!” she sang, and my lip twitched. I had no plans to dance when I came in here, but with Linc’s eyes burning a hole into the side of my face, I turned to him. “Can you keep an eye on my drink?”
For a few seconds, he studied me closely, and I felt my chest hammer under the scrutiny. From the day he first stepped foot in my life six years ago, I’d never been very good at lying to him, and he always saw right through me. Then he nodded and turned to his sister with a forced chuckle.
“You just brought me here just to watch your stuff.”
Grabbing my hand, she smirked. “I feel a little less bad now that you realize it.” She urged me out of the booth. “Be back in a few, big brother!”
I felt myself relax completely as soon as we stepped out onto the floor and I moved my hips to the sound of Halestorm’s rendition of The Beatles’ “I Want You.” Spotting Linc, who was already on his phone, I gave him a little wave and turned my back to him. “Thank you,” I told Pen, widening my eyes in relief.
