"Sierra was different." Chance's thumb taps against the steering wheel, a subtle smile curving his lips. "Besides, maybe some things are worth the wait."
The words hang between us, loaded with a meaning I'm not sure I'm ready to unpack.
Different how? The question claws at the back of my throat, bitter and insistent. Different like a girl who’s one of the guys? Different like unforgettable? Or just different because she had the kind of poise and charm that doesn’t come with a side of sarcasm and eye-rolls?
And what’s with the “worth the wait”comment anyway? Who’s waiting? Sierra didn’t have to wait. It was ahey there, boys,and boom, Gold VIP membership holder.
"Careful, GI Joe. So it’s not a sword-crossing sausage fest… a bukkake ruins carpets scenario with Sierra in the mix. Got it."
“And here I thought your biggest weapon was sarcasm. Turns out it’s shock value. Do you kiss the coffee guy with that mouth or just scare him into free refills?”
“Sure do. Suck the occasional dick with it too. So, nailed it, right? Total bukkake.”
A pained expression flickers across his face, and he shifts in his seat. “No carpet to ruin at the Shred Shack, not interested in trading the afterglow on post-bukkake cleanup duty.”
He’s kidding. He said it all deadpan… definitely kidding—I think. Not that it matters. I just don’t want to picture Nick like that. That’s all. That’s precisely it.
And the Shred Shack? Seriously? Sounds like the brainchild of a dude-bro who skipped leg day.
But this bukkake chick got to go there. Not that he confirmed it. But he didn’t deny it, either—somehow, that’s worse.
And it’s not like I want to be Sierra. I don’t. I don’t even want him. This is just… curiosity. Normal, harmless curiosity.
So, different how? Different like perfect? Different like the kind of girl who doesn’t make jokes about bukkake in casual conversation?
God, stop. Just stop. It’s fine. Totally fine. I don’t care what he meant by “worth the wait.” I don’t.
Except I do. And I hate her for it, whoever she is—or was. Ugh, who even waits for someone anymore?
Chapter Eight
Holly
The circular drivecurves past a row of luxury SUVs to the grand entrance of the Morgan Lodge at Ridgewood Peak.
The very place we’ve spent our Christmases forever.
Stone pillars frame massive oak doors, and evergreen garlands drape the archway. Fresh powder sparkles on every surface, picture-perfect and pristine.
Chance kills the engine but doesn't move. "You sure about this?"
No. But I nod anyway.
We grab our bags and head for the entrance looking less like we’re about to hit the slopes for a week and more like we’re—oh, I don’t know—facing down a firing squad.
"You should smile, you look like you're headed for a colonoscopy." I aim for teasing, but it comes out harsher than I intended.
"You think smiling will fix that?" His voice is sharp and mocking at the very suggestion.
"Don't know. I just know that's what you guys tell us. Like it's the goddamn answer to world peace or some shit." The words taste bitter on my tongue after a lifetime of being told every problem could be solved if I just beamed like a little ray of toxic sunshine while I rode a unicorn farting rainbows.
Chance's brow furrows. "Is there some vibration in the air when you get near your dad? Some force that dials you straight to the 'fuck all the way off' setting or something?"
No.
Well.
Maybe.
