She pauses, lips curving. “You offering?”
“I could be there in, say, an hour.”
“Hmm.” She taps the wrench against her chin like she’s thinking. “If you come over, I’ll order pizza and beers.”
“Pizza?” I grin. “What kind of cheerleader eats pizza?”
“Fuck you. Cheerleaders eat carbs,” she fires back, but there’s a huge grin on her face now. “You’re so stereotypical.”
“Fine,” I say. “I’ll come over and let you school me. What kind?”
“I’ll text you ideas as soon as I can get the menu.”
“Should I bring something else? We can skip on pizza altogether and get something different.”
She cocks her head. “Like what?”
And before I can stop myself, I say, “Chipotle.”
It slips out. I don’t even realize it until I see her expression shift—just slightly—but not in the way I expected. No flinch, no awkward silence. Just a calm little shrug as she says, “It’s a bit late for Chipotle, and it’ll make me sluggish. Any other suggestions?”
I exhale. Hell, I shouldn’t have said that. I just accidentally retraumatize the girl I like and might have given it away. By the looks on her face, she doesn’t put it together.
“Let’s get pizza. Let me know when you find the menu.”
“Great,” she says, smiling. “See you soon.”
“About an hour?”
“I’ll be waiting for you.” Something in her voice—soft, easy, trusting—wraps around me like a tether. “Bye,baby,” she says.
I grin. “Bye, baby.”
I hang up, staring at my reflection in the black screen. The cigarette burns down between my fingers before I flick it away.
I was so damn angry at Miles when I stepped outside, but somehow, in five minutes, Chloe managed to pull me right back from the edge.
Maybe that rat bastard was right after all. We should have stayed away from her. She has way too much power over me.
Still, the memory of her skin, the look in her eyes as she rode my cock, it’s enough to make me forget every ounce of logic I ever had.
When I step back inside, the bar’s a little quieter. The song has changed. Kyle’s wiping down the counter, and the corner booth is empty.
“They left?” I ask.
He nods. “Yeah. That girl, Bella, she looked drunk.”
I don’t respond. Just nod, jaw tight.
He probably couldn’t stand knowing I didn’t rise to it. That’s the thing about him—he feeds off chaos. When you don’t give him the reaction he wants, it starves him.
I grab a glass, pour a drink I don’t really want, and lean against the counter, watching the door even though I know he’s gone.
My stomach twists. I haven’t even had time to process the fight from practice, and now this?
Then I pocket my phone, finish my drink, and look around the bar.
For once, I don’t feel like fighting. Not Miles, not anyone. All I can think about is a pink room, a half-built dresser, and a girl waiting for me with pizza and beer.
