We're busy?Is he serious right now?
Dace chuckles, raising the beer like he's toasting. "No worries, bro. But, uh…maybe use a bedroom next time?"
This is hell. This is literally hell. It has to be hell.
The photographer, to his credit, tucks his camera away with a shrug and follows Dace back toward the party.
"So…that just happened," Austin says into the silence, chuckling like he finds the whole situation hilarious.
It's not hilarious. It's a disaster. Come tomorrow, my face—and thong—will be plastered all over the internet. The whole world will think I was servicing him in the fucking hallway at a party.
"Fix it," I hiss, jabbing him in the ribs. "Fix it right now!"
"Nah," he says, turning to me with that damn smirk plastered across his face. "I'm good."
He's good?
He's good?
What does that even mean?!
I see the kind of red that comes right before a murder. Specifically, the murder of a six-foot-six quarterback with an attitude problem and an erection you could see from space.
I lunge for his arm, drag him into the bathroom, and slam the door behind us.
"What the fuck is wrong with you?" I demand, whirling on him. "Have you taken too many hits to that obnoxiously giant head of yours? Are you drunk? Concussed? Mentally unstable? Completely off your rocker?"
He doesn't even flinch. He leans back against the sink with his arms crossed, the very picture of amusement, like I'm running through his playbook exactly as scripted. "You mean besides my ruined pants and erection?"
"Besides the fact that you're apparently into public humiliation?" I pace, then whirl on him again. "Do you have any idea how fast those photos are going to spread? I'll be on every meme site by breakfast. My boss will see them. My mother will see them. My brother will see them. Complete strangers will see them for the rest of my life!" I press my hands to my cheeks, breathing like I just ran a race. "Oh, my God. I'm going to be 'Kneeling Serena' forever."
His lip quirks. "Could be worse."
"How? How could this possibly be worse, Austin?"
He thinks for one whole second, like he's searching for the most outrageous answer. "You could have actually been giving me head, but you weren't. So, might as well make the most of it, right?"
My shriek could shatter glass. "I have met you exactly once. I have no intention of making the most of anything involving you, or your—" I gesture violently at his crotch "—fucking MVP."
"Let's agree to disagree," he says, and then, like he's the victim here, "You know, it's not like I asked you to touch my MVP."
"You're a menace," I hiss, jabbing him in the chest with a finger. "A menace hellbent on my destruction. I can't be 'Kneeling Serena' for the rest of my life! There's not enoughtherapy in the world."
He watches me lose my mind for a minute, then straightens, all six thousand feet of him, and crowds me against the vanity. "I'll make you a deal, princess."
"I'm not interested in your deals."
He ignores me. Of course he does. Men like him don't hear no, only whatever variation of yes their delusions have conjured up. "I'll make sure the photos disappear before they hit the internet. I know people. But you have to do something for me."
My blood goes cold. "What, like…kill a man? Steal a playbook? Rob a bank?" Honestly, the possibilities are endless here. Nothing about him inspires confidence.
"Go out with me."
I blink at him. "What?"
"Date. Me. Serena." He says it slowly, like he's teaching a child to speak. "Go to dinner with me. Or a movie. Or a hockey or baseball game, since you're weird and hate football so much. I don't care."
"Th…this is blackmail!" I splutter.
