I blink. He chuckles. “You looked over at me before you kissed him and you felt it. Just like I did. We have chemistry.”
“You’re not my type, Inky.” It’s the truth but it’s also kind of cruel. I hope he realizes I don’t mean it that way. I’m too shy to look up at him to gauge his reaction so I go back to sliding one of my manicured nails over his ink, this time a skull with a flower crown.
“Right. Because your type is people you’re not attracted to?”
Okay, now I look up. He’s smirking. I feel it in my underwear. I swallow and bite my lip. He reaches up and presses his thumb just below my lip, pulling it from between my teeth. “If someone is going to bite that, it’s going to be me.”
“Okay.”
Yeah. I said okay, all nonchalant and unbothered like I was agreeing to a pizza topping. Even he is shocked, his eyebrows raising sharply. But he recovers fast and then his head is bending and I'm tilting my chin—which he's still kind of holding—and…
I’m kissing this ink-covered stranger.
It’s soft, at first. He’s testing the waters. His lips gentle but not timid. He’s still got my chin in his big hand, and he angles my mouth to the side, his tongue ghosting the edge of my lip.
It feels so good. Like really good. Like oh my God, I finally get why everyone is so horny all the time type of good. Not a single part of me tenses or freezes or turns to stone. My fight-or-flight instincts have left the building. I could stay here, kissing this guy, for years.
I grab his ass as I open my mouth and his tongue finds mine. Sparks fly and they clear my head for a second. Just long enough that I register the feel of his ass under my palms. His very hard, very round, very muscular ass. There is one specific type of man that has that specific kind of ass.
I pull away like the sparks flying from the kiss are actually electrocuting me. His eyes fly open and he looks equal parts startled and confused. “What happened? You were into that.”
“I was,” I admit as I wipe my mouth. “But you play hockey.”
He blinks. “You recognize me?”
I shake my head. “Do you recognize me?”
He frowns, confused. “Why would I recognize you? And how would you know I play hockey if you don’t recognize me?”
“Are you… a Quake?”
“Yeah.”
“Fuck no.”
I bolt. Like a fawn in the forest after the startling boom of a gunshot. I make my way out of the club and through the casino it's attached to without incident. I'm on the famous Las Vegas Boulevard gulping fresh, warm air and trying to get my bearings when I feel a hand on my shoulder.
Of course, he followed. The lights of the strip give me a much better view of his face, which is even more ruggedly handsome than I thought. Chiseled jaw, high cheekbones, and eyes… they're the real masterpiece. A shade that could be described a thousand ways, because it's not just one color, it's a vortex of many. I see moss and amber and chocolate and storm cloud.
"So hockey players are a no-go? Why?" he asks. "And why would I recognize you? You said you were an Art History student. How would a professional hockey player know a?—"
“Art Education. I teach kids about art and music. Well, I will when I graduate.” I sigh and shake my head, trying to clear what’s left of the alcohol from my body. “Which one are you and why aren’t you wearing one of those stupid shirts?”
He stares. Hard. Like he’s searching his brain for a reason I’m this crazy. He’ll never find it. I’m the Garrison no one knows about. I hide easily and gratefully in the giant shadows of my relatives. I avoid hockey games, and when I do have to go because someone in my family is being awarded something or winning something, I duck cameras and leave early.
“Westwood.”
Westwood? Is he a Westwood? I smile and then I laugh, because of course he's a Westwood. I see it now. I've met both his parents on multiple occasions. I've even seen him before, although we never officially met. The cheeks are his dad’s, the hair is his mom's color, the eyes a mix of both. "Which one? Crew or Nash?"
“Crew, and to answer your earlier question I’m not wearing the shirt because there was a fuck-up with the order and mine came in a small” he replies. “Nothing about me is small.”
A bubble of laughter explodes from my mouth. “Nothing about you is subtle either, apparently.”
“I just had my tongue in your mouth, and you liked it, so I figured we could be candid.” Crew shrugs. “If you hate hockey players, why do you know our names?”
“I don’t hate hockey players,” I reply. “I love them. But I know them so I avoid kissing them. Thanks though. That was great. Really. Five stars.”
I start down the street. He hooks my left arm and spins me to face him before I even realize what’s happening. “The Wynn is that way.”
