I’m in shock.
Actual shock.
Did she really just ask for a threesome with Colt?
“Fuck off, Jessi, not interested,” Colt replies, taking another sip of his beer. He seems so calm, but this is a big deal to me. It’s not every day a girl asks for a threesome. Well, not in my sheltered world, anyway.
“Oh, c’mon, Colt, it’s not like you haven’t done it before,” she protests, and I feel Colt tense up under me.
What the hell?
Seriously, why am I even surprised by this? He’s a rock star. Of course, he’s had threesomes and done other crazy stuff. I don’t know why it bothers me, especially as it’s in his past.
“Jessi, shut up. I told you I’m not interested. I don’t want to share Dee with anyone else, especially not you. I know where you’ve been.”
“Then come and party without her. You don’t have to share her. You can share yourself with Kira, me, and maybe Steph. We can have arealfun time, like that time in Essex, when we were high and—”
“Okay, that’s enough! Go hang out with Coslecki and Brad. I’m sure they’ll tag team you,” Colt says.
Holy shit! Colt used to get high as well?
I am stunned into silence.
I’m starting to think I don’t know who he is at all.
Silently, internally panicking, I sit up straight on Colt.
“Well, if you change your mind, I’m always open for business… for you, Colt,” she hints seductively with a wink before she leans down and kissesmeon the cheek.
What the fuck?This girl is seriously twisted!
She walks off, and I rub my cheek with the back of my hand, trying to wipe away the slimy, disgusting remnants of her disgusting touch. My stomach twists. I feel sick.
Colt doesn’t look at me. Instead, he takes a long, slow pull of his beer, his jaw tight, his expression unreadable. I shift off his lap, the warmth of his body suddenly unbearable, and settle onto the seat beside him.
I don’t know what I’m feeling.
Anger?Maybe.
Disgust?Definitely.
Hurt?Absolutely.
I knew his past existed, but I never wanted it thrown in my face, never wanted to feel it like a punch to the gut.
Colt finally turns to me, his brow furrowed, regret darkening his eyes. “I’m sorry,” he whispers. I know he means it. I hear it in his voice, see it in the way his fingers tighten around his beer like he wants to crush it. But the sick feeling in my chest doesn’t go away.
And I hate that.
I hate this.
Unable to stand the weight of his gaze, I push up from my chair. My pulse is pounding, my breath unsteady.
I need air.
So I prepare to leave.
I don’t know where I’m going. I just know I need to get away before I say something I can’t take back.
