Figures.
I slide onto a stool, the wood creaking under my weight, and order a beer. The glass is cold, condensation dripping onto my fingers as I take that first long pull. It doesn’t erase the night, but it numbs the edges.
Across the room, a couple of cheerleaders hover near the jukebox, squealing over songs, tossing their hair, skirts riding high. They’re all tan legs and lip gloss, looking like they need the attention. I watch them without really seeing.
Another sip. Another beat of silence.
Then the door swings open, and out strolls Jamie—my best friend, my headache—grinning like he just won the lottery. Bella’s with him, ponytail bouncing, her mouth still swollenfrom whatever he’s been doing to her. Her laugh is high and breathy as she trails after him, and when she spots me, she blows a kiss across the bar. Shameless.
I just stare back, deadpan.
She sways out the door, leaving perfume in her wake, and Jamie drops onto the stool beside me. He’s still flushed, still smug, grabbing the cap off his beer with his teeth before spitting it onto the floor.
“When the hell did you get here?” he asks, foam already dripping down his wrist as he takes a swallow.
I tip my bottle in his direction. “Couple minutes ago. Question is, aren’t you supposed to be working? Why are you getting head from the cheerleaders instead of pouring drinks?”
He smirks, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. “Multitasking.”
I shake my head, lips quirking despite myself. “You’re a fucking disaster.”
“Thank you,” he says, clinking his bottle against mine.
“So when you said she slept with half the team––”
He glares at me as I grin, taking another sip, not finishing my sentence.
For a while we sit in silence, the bar humming around us, the low thrum of bad country music seeping from the jukebox as the girls pick another song. My shoulders ache from earlier, a phantom weight of the hammer still pressing down. The beer helps, but not enough.
Jamie studies me from the corner of his eye. “You good?”
I drag a hand through my hair, sighing. “Just Rico and his bullshit.”
He nods like he understands, though he doesn’t, not really. No one understands Rico unless they’ve been there, seen the gleam in his eyes when he cuts a man open. But Jamie doesn’t press.
Instead he leans in, lowering his voice. “I’ve got something that could make you feel better.”
I arch a brow. “Yeah?”
He grins, cocky as hell, and jerks his chin toward the back of the bar. “Come on.”
Against my better judgment, I follow. Through the haze of beer and neon, past tables cluttered with empty glasses, until we reach the far corner where the music gets louder, the air hotter.
And there they are.
The cheerleaders again, perched on stools and laughing too loud. New faces. Fresh meat. They’re dressed like they came here to be seen, short skirts, tank tops clinging to skin, perfume cutting through the sour beer smell.
Then I seeher.
And my whole body stops.
Short red dress. Sneakers. Legs tucked beneath her on the stool like she’s trying to make herself smaller, but those green eyes—fuck—those eyes don’t let you look away. Wide, luminous, raw. They slice straight through the smoke, straight through me.
The one who I kidnapped and haven’t been able to stop thinking about since.
Shock slams into me, hard enough that I stumble back a step, my beer nearly slipping from my hand.
Why the hell is Chloe Ashford here?
