“I don’t believe you,” he whispers, voice dark and smooth. “But don’t worry, honey. You give off very macho, straight-boy vibes.”
The wordhoneyhits somewhere humiliatingly low inside me. I open my mouth to refute him, but I just end up gaping.
“But Lincoln,” he adds, his smile tilting dangerously, “if you keep staring at me like that, I’m going to give you exactly what you want.”
A rash of chills spreads out over my body, and my breath misfires. All of my blood recirculates to pool in the center of my body, to the point that I can’t feel my fingers or my toes.
My tongue feels swollen and too heavy to open my mouth and speak, but I manage to stammer out a weak, “I—D-don’t call me that.”
I’m mortified.
“What? Lincoln? Or honey?”
“Either!”
He lifts his hands in mock surrender. “Alright, alright. What am I supposed to call you, then? You don’t like nicknames. Beck isjust for friends. Captain gets you all worked up, and you’re working so hard to pretend you aren’t interested.”
“I’m not.”
“Uh-huh. So what exactly can I call you without you spiraling? Huh?”
I can’t bring myself to tell him that my father is the only one who ever calls me Lincoln. Or that the idea of him calling me anything makes me feel like I’m spiraling.
“What if I just used your last name? Can I call you Beckett?”
“I’d rather you not call me at all.”
“You know what they say about protesting too much, right?”
God, he’s more argumentative than Caty. Let’s hope the two of them never end up in a room together.
I cling to the thought of Caty like a lifeline.
“I have a girlfriend,” I blurt.
He looks entirely unimpressed. “Sure you do,” he says dryly, then leans forward again. “Do you watch her dance the way you’ve been watching me,Beckett?”
His breath caresses the sensitive skin of my neck and makes me shiver. He leaves me sputtering for breath and returns to the dance floor, swallowed by the music and bodies. Every time he moves, the crowd moves with him, orbiting him like he’s the center of their galaxy.
I pull out my phone like it’s a lifeline, typing out a text to Caty. Maybe I can get her to come by and show him. It’ll be a good reminder to everyone else, too, of what kind of guy I am. Caty’s a fucking smoke show. I’ll invite her here to dance and leave Brody fucking Miller swallowing his stupid ideas about who I am.
Before I can finish typing out the message, the bartender leans in over the counter, startling me. I’d actually forgotten he was there.
“Jesus, I almost came from the way he was eye fucking you.” He fans his face. “Are you alright?”
I roll my eyes and turn away from him. “I’m fine. He’s a goddamn clown.”
“Well, if you’re not going to take him home, you wouldn’t mind if I do, right?”
My jaw clenches. “You can do whatever you want. I’m not interested.”
“Riiight,” he says, one eyebrow arching knowingly. “Is that so?”
He rests his elbows on the bar, his grin turning salacious. “So you’re saying that if I disappeared down that hallway,” he nods towards the dark corridor I noticed earlier, “and you happened to find me on my knees, you’re saying you wouldn’t want this mouth?”
He slowly licks his lips, then turns towards the hallway without waiting for an answer.
I stare after him, at the darkness. At the familiar, easy temptation. The predictable script I know I can follow without thinking. The opportunity to escape my headspace for just a short while.
