Page 120 of Secrets on Ice

Inside it's dark, loud, and packed, with the bass going through the floor, and Fish is up on his toes scanning the room like a lifeguard until he spots the booth. And I see her before I've even decided to look for her. She's on the dance floor, in a dress that shows off her curves, curves that I have run my tongue over, laughing with her head tipped back, and there's a guy with her. Hands on her waist as if they belong there.

Everything in me goes very still. I watch him lean in and kiss her, I stand there like an idiot with a drink in my hand and my heart going through my ribs. Good, I tell myself. This is good. This is exactly what she's supposed to be doing. I told her to do this. Not in those words, but I told her. Go be single, figure yourself out. I stood in my own bedroom and agreed with her that we should stop, and I meant it, and she is out here doing precisely the thing I said she should do, and I have absolutely no right to feel like someone's just taken a blade to my ribs.

She pulls back from him, smiling, and turns toward the booth. Her eyes find mine, her face drops, and she subtly moves away from him. Even in this light I can see it, that little flinch of oh shit, and I hate it, I hate that she looks caught because there's nothing to be caught at. She hasn't done anything wrong.

Then someone's hand lands on my chest, pulling my attention from her. “You're one of the Mavericks, right?” the silky voice asks.

There's a girl in front of me, blonde, tiny dress with cleavage spilling over the edge, and a big smile. Then there's another one at my shoulder. There are three more moving in on Bouch and Evan, and Nelly's already gone into full deer-in-headlights mode, and just like that, we're surrounded, and I can't see the dance floor anymore.

“Yeah,” I say.

“I knew it. I told my friend.” She leans in closer, her hand still on me. “Can we get a photo?”

We take the photo. I smile when she asks me fifty million inane questions about nothing. I do the whole thing on autopilot, same as I've done a thousand times. Normally it's fine, this is what the puck bunnies do, but tonight I'd rather be anywhere else on earth.

The blonde's still talking. She's got her hand on my forearm now and she's telling me she's here with her sister. I'm nodding along but I don't hear a single word, because I'm trying to see past her shoulder to a spot on the dance floor, but I can’t find her.

I shouldn’t be here. I put my beer down. “Sorry,” I tell her. “It was nice meeting you. I've got an early one.”

I find Bouch, tell him I'm out, ignore the noise he makes about it, and I leave.

I get home and shower. I put on the TV but don't watch it, then get a beer out of the fridge and don't drink it. I stand in the kitchen in the dark with the city lights coming through the windows, running the same loop of watching her kiss some random in the club over and over and wishing it was me.

I have no idea what time it is when I hear the door to the apartment open. She comes in with her shoes in one hand, hair a mess, and stops dead when she sees me.

“You're still up.”

“Couldn't sleep,” I tell her.

“Right.” She sets her shoes down carefully and wobbles a little. She's drunk. “You left.”

“Yeah, not much of a club guy. We went because Fish didn’t want anyone hitting on his wife.”

She nods as she comes over to the island, and leans on it with both hands. I look past her to the empty hallway. “Cass not with you?” I ask.

She shakes her head.

“She's with Marlowe. I think she’s staying there tonight.”

“Right.” I nod.

Silence falls between us. I walk over to the fridge and grab her a bottle of water and hand it to her.

“Thanks,” she says, opening it and taking a large sip. “You saw.”

I don't insult her by asking what. “Yeah.”

“He was just some guy,” she says.

“You don't have to explain.”

“I'm not explaining, just telling,” she says.

“Okay.”

“Why do you sound upset?” she asks, pushing off the island as she comes around to me. “You told me to go out and explore others.” She stops in front of me. Close enough that I can smell the champagne on her. “So why did you leave?” she says.

And there it is. I could lie, but … “Em,” I say.