Page 32 of Hard to Score

“There’s going to be a next time?” Did I really just say that out loud?

“God, I hope so,” he says and closes the distance between us before planting another kiss on my lips. “Because next time? Next time I’m going to be sober so I don’t miss a fucking thing about doing this thing we just did.”

“You mean kissing?”

“Yes. That.” He starts to head away from me and stumbles. “Mildred’s right, you know,” he says, turning to face me, his arms out at his sides, the pathway light directly overhead, illuminating a circle around him.

“Right about what? Mustard?”

“No. About hate fucks. They’re awesome. But not for the first time.” He shakes his head.

“Oh.” Parts of my body ignite at the dark promise of his words. “That’s good to know,” I all but squeak.

“You.” He points to me. “Goddamn you, Brexton Kincade. You made me start to believe. You made me want. And now I have to figure out what the hell that means.”

I’m sure that makes perfect sense to him, but now isn’t the time to ask. Now is the time to stand here and watch him walk away with his laugh echoing around me and the warmth of his lips still on mine.

What just happened?

And more importantly, when can it happen again?

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

DREW

10 years earlier

SPIN IT.

Spin it.

The twenty or so teenagers sitting around Deadman’s Cove chant the taunt over and over.

It’s late, but I have no worries. It’s our last night here in the Keys, and our parents let us roam free. It’s safe in this small paradise where we rented a house for two weeks with the Kincade family, and besides that, I’ll be seventeen in a couple of months so I can take care of myself.

Add to that? Mom and Dad partied a little too hard with the Kincades today and are no doubt fast asleep.

Today? More like this whole trip.

But that’s okay. That means they won’t know how many beers I’ve had because they won’t remember how many they drank.

A fucking win for me.

It also means I’ve made fast friends with the locals here. Anyone who can supply the beer is someone they like. Besides, they’re starving for outsiders to save them from the boredom of this small-town, island life.

“Let’s go, Bowman. It’s your turn. Whoever you land on you get five minutes of heaven alone with them behind the Coconut Shack,” the local ringleader Hank says, referring to the beachfront walk-up ice cream stand that’s now currently closed.

I stare at the empty bottle sitting on top of a piece of cardboard and wonder who it’s going to land on.

“Fine. I’m game,” I say, willing to try anything once.

“So you know the rules?” he asks.

“Yeah. You draw four numbers and whoever has those numbers are the contestants. I spin and whoever I land on is who I get time with.”

“Yep.”

“Fine. Sure. Bring it on, man.”