I shove him off. “We’re in a fucking parking lot.”
I scramble to redress as he stumbles back, my entire body shaking. My jeans are inside-out, my shirt is all damp with sweat and the scent of his cologne. My body feels like it’s been struck by lightning. I look at Bradford and see the exact same thing I always do.
Nothing.
Chapter 21
Bradford
What the fuckis wrong with me?
I can’t even look at Jenna as she buttons her jeans, her blonde hair long lost from the clip that held it. I haven’t done something stupid like this in God knows how long.
And what the hell came over me? Did she start this? Or was it me?
Fuck, fuck, fuck. Where is Turner? Why did I leave him again?
As the world snaps back into focus, I feel it—the ice-cold drop in my blood, the tight, mechanical panic stutter of my own heart.
I lost control.
Jenna stands in front of me, hair as wild as her eyes. She’s watching me, and I’m staring at her, like I didn’t just get lost in the warmth of her body. She takes a step toward me, and I shake my head.
“Don’t.”
She freezes at the sharpness in my tone. The night is so quiet now I can hear my own blood in my ears, and then the distant tick of a cooling car engine somewhere. I force my pants up, almost rip the zipper in my rush to get it shut, then button with hands that don’t even feel like they’re mine anymore.
I can’t look at her now. I can’t. I look over her head, at the dim parking lot lights, at the cars, at the way Ian is still splayed like a dead animal a few yards off. His shoe is half-off, and there’s a trickle of blood curling from his nose to the ground.
FUCK.
I spit on the ground, trying to get the taste of her out of my mouth, but all it does is remind me of the way she kissed, and that has me halfway hard again.
Jenna says nothing. She just stands there, arms around her own body, shaking in the cold. This isnothow sex is supposed to go.
But it’s been so goddamned long since I’ve done it.
And I don’t know what came over me.
“Are you okay?” Jenna’s voice squeaks, and it makes sense she would be reaching for something from me after what happened, but I can’t find a response. Every trigger in my brain is sounding.
And I don’t even know what for.
“You should go home,” I grit out.
She flinches but doesn’t protest. Instead, she nods, and then walks to her car with stiff, careful steps. Not even giving the guy on the ground a second look.
And I should apologize for all this. I
should stop her and give her a kiss goodnight.
But I stay stark still, my senses still overwhelmed with the stench of sex. It’s not until her engine starts and the taillights flicker on, painting the gravel behind her red, that I can even think somewhat think again.
I try to count backwards from ten, try to ground myself, but all I can do is clench my fists and hope I don’t throw up on my own boots.
Why the fuck did I do that? What is wrong with me?
Before I can even attempt to work through those questions, I hear a low, ugly sound, and realize the dude on the groundmightneed medical attention.
