He shakes his head. “I brought protection.” He gestures at his costume, then wiggles his eyebrows like he’s not really talking about wearing a giant, flimsy, fabric ghost over his body.
He pulls back again, forehead crinkled in a frown. “Wait.”
I roll my eyes. “It might take a little longer than two kisses, you know. I’m notthatgood.”
He chuckles, then hands me his phone. “Put your number in. I can’t take the risk we’ll make out all night, and then you run away and ghost me.”
Pointing at his costume, I shake my head. “I think it’s obvious who the ghosterwill be.” I raise my brow at him.
“Come on, I can’t talk to you if I don’t know how to reach you.”
The idea of leaving here and not talking to this guy again makes me feel some kinda way. I don’t like it. So we exchange numbers, and I excuse myself to go to the bathroom while Tate goes to get us drinks. Turns out all that talking, and singing, and kissing is thirsty work.
Standing in line for the restroom, the most beautiful girl I’ve ever seen comes out of the door almost walking straight into me.
“I love your dress.” She points at my costume. “Belle is the best Disney princess.”
“I know, right? All those books. I’d kill to have a library with a ladder.”
The girl nods. “Oh. Hey.” She points at me. “Didn’t I see you chatting to Tate Myers?”
Whatever else she says, I can’t hear. My ears pop like I’ve changed altitude as nausea grips my stomach in an iron hold. It can’t be.
Myers.
It’s a common name, right?
There’s no way.
Except every cell in my body tells me there is a way, and that it’s not simply coincidence. I stumble away from the girl who’s looking at me with concern in her eyes.
“You went really pale, are you okay? Did you drink too much? Do you need to sit down?” She’s following me toward the front door where I stumble out onto the porch, damn near tripping over a fucking pig, like an actual goddamn pig. I’m not sure if my eyes are playing tricks on me or what, but it looks like the pig’s wearing a fucking tutu.
I make my way through the sea of college bodies bumping and grinding against each other, and down the steps out into the yard.
When I brush off my bathroom friend at the gate, I keep pushing myself to move forward. I make it to the end of the street, I pull out my phone, open a search browser, and swallow hard. I’m sure I’m over reacting. I’ll look him up, clear things up, and be right back in that room staring at his dreamy, green-gray eyes and swooning over him playing his guitar for me in no time.
I type in Tate Myers University of Cedar Rapids.
It takes less than a second to confirm he’s a hockey player.
My stomach hardens, bile sloshing up into my throat.
It takes less than another second to confirm his father is a famous former NHL pro hockey player.
Fuck. I’m going to be sick.
And once I see his dad’s picture, the final nail in the fuck-him-never-again coffin gets hammered into Tate’s coffin.
Tate’s father, Zachary Myers, is the asshole who hit my Dad on the ice, ended his career, and tipped over the first domino that resulted in my parents getting a divorce.
Zachary Myers ruined my Dad’s life, my family,mylife.
And I had his son’s tongue in my mouth, and his cock pressed against my body.
Worse still, I liked it. And I wanted more.
I touch my mouth, then scrub at my lips like I can get his taste, his scent, the feeling of his mouth still pressed against mine off me.
