I shrug again. “Most men aren’t me. Everyone has something that makes them go absolutely feral. Mine just happens to be seeing a man in a string thong with his ass in the air.”
He eyes me suspiciously. “I’ve never owned a pair of those.”
“You would look fucking hot in one.” I reach for the abandoned shot of his and grab it without asking. Throw it back. Slam it down. “You have the perfect ass for it.” I dig the cigarette pack out of my pocket and slip one between my lips. Don’t light it though. Never light it. Not going out like Mama did. “I’d pay big money?—”
He rips the cigarette from my mouth and breaks it in half. “That’s disgusting.”
If looks could kill.
If only he reacted to the look on my face that could kill.
He sits there unaffected as I scowl at him. “Have you lost your damn mind?”
“Every time you smoke one of those things, it knocks seven minutes off of your life. Do you know what you could do in seven minutes?”
I start counting on my fingers as I speak, “I could break someone’s jaw, I could come once or twice, I could drive my car off a cliff, I could hang myself from the ceiling, I could give some ballsy twink a six-minuteand fifty-nine second lecture on keeping their paws off things that don’t belong to them.” I wave the pack of cigarettes in his face. “I know exactly what these things can do to the human body. That’s why I never actually light them, not anymore. But it’s not because I’m afraid of dying. In fact, I think about just that all the time. Think about driving my car off a cliff, but have completely nixed the idea of hanging myself with a noose because I want to scream as I’m going out. But I’m warning you, don’t do that again.”
His gaze drops, almost as if he’s cowering in shame, or fear. In our twenty-four hours together, I’ve never seen him like this. A wounded puppy with no sarcastic comeback or an irritating game of twenty questions.
I let out a defeated sigh, hating I’ve made someone feel the way I felt for years. I reach across the space between us and place a hand on his thigh. Give him a little squeeze.
He cocks his head upward, eyes still heavy. “Why do you want to die?”
And I lie through my teeth when I assure him, “I don’t.”
CHAPTER 8
SEVEN
I learneda long time ago to listen to people the first time they talk. Learned to believe them when they say certain things. Magnus, Silas, and everyone back home weren’t liars in the traditional sense. They said what they meant and believed what they said. The lies they wore on their hearts defined the way they viewed the world.
People don’t talk about dying in such certain terms without at least pondering the idea of it. Noah’s words say one thing, but his eyes say another. The windows to the soul. The windows to the truth. The windows of which the curtains are only drawn milliseconds at a time. The average person blinks fifteen times per minute, but when they’re lying, they blink even more. I’ve counted at least twenty blinks since Noah lied to me about not wanting to die.
We don’t know each other. Not really. Don’t knoweach other well enough to talk about such matters. I have no doubts that somewhere, at some point in time, a man has been saved from jumping off a bridge by some kind stranger. I’m in no position to negotiate, not when I’m living on borrowed time myself.
I jump to my feet and grab him by his hand. He pulls away from me and passes me a sideways glance as if to ask,what the hell are you doing?I’m not in the mood to take no for an answer and grab him again, this time with enough force to pull him from his stool. He groans as I lead him away from the bar and to the dance floor.
We stand in front of each other, but his eyes are anywhere else. He searches the bar with his eyes and brushes a thumb over his lower lip. “I don’t think this is the best idea.”
“You said you’re not afraid of no bitches, remember?” I question, unable to resist the urge to prod him. “Besides, I saw what you did to that trucker. I honestly have no idea what you’re so worried about. Seems to me you can handle yourself quite well.”
“I’m not afraid of anyone, but that doesn’t mean I’m in the mood to fight a bunch of drunks.”
I purse my lips into a frown. “I’ve never danced before.”
“How is that possible?”
“Where I’m from, people don’t dance.” I shrug. “Fun isn’t really a thing people have.”
He arches a brow. “Like Footloose?”
“I have no idea what you’re talking about.” I grab him by the hand and give him a little tug. I’m not strong enough to drag him, so the fact that he’s moving at all, tells me he’s doing so of his own free will. “And I don’t know what it’s like to dance with someone.”
“There are much better places to dance, I promise you. Clubs in the city. Beaches. Underneath the stars. Say the word, and I’ll take you back to the room and we’ll dance there.”
“No.” I move his hand to my waist. “We dance here.”
His fingers tap over the side of my denim jeans while he stares at me with eyes that want to dance and want to run at the same time. I place a shaking hand over his hip and catch myself drowning in cold feet. I glare at the bartender, but she’s too lost in her phone to care what’s happening on the dance floor. I look to the right to catch one of the bikers staring, but he averts his gaze quickly. The rest of his friends converse on the other side of the pool table, either uncaring or unaware. Sweat pools at my back and on my hands, and I release my grip on Noah’s side.
