Page 11 of I Want to Know What Love Is

“Why don’t we find a place we can be alone?” she says. This should be good news, right? If I leave it’ll put an end to my crazy and short-cut the party for me, but who cares? There’s no good time better than a lay in the hay with a pretty little thing, is there?

Except I get the impression she doesn’t appreciate me for more than my QB status and muscle size.

“Tell me, sha, why do you want to be alone with me?”

“Sha?” A puzzled frown creases her brow and I pull her close to avoid a dancing body out of control.

“It’s Cajun—French. For sweetheart.” She likes that. Actually flutters her eyelashes and a touch of pink colors her cheeks. “You want to spend the night?”

She nods.

“Why?”

“Because you’re so hot.” She laughs like I’m stupid for asking. Maybe I am. I straighten from her because she’s short and I had to bend to talk to her. If I leave now I’m stretching the limits of my ability to keep control of the party. This is my year to run this house, to do things my way, the Cajun way.

“Sorry. Wrong answer.”

“Wha—what?”

I sigh. I don’t know how to explain, but I try because I can’t be rude, not even to a girl who has no real interest in me, who’s happy to use me for my body. I snicker because I sound like an idiot in my head.

“I’m not interested in mindless sex,” I say. I pretty much mean it. It doesn’t tell the whole story—and hell if I know what the whole story is—but it’s the simplest explanation and suitable for a not private corner of this freshly wild party.

She laughs, although to give her credit, there’s a vibration of nerves in her giggle. “Are you serious?” Her question is serious, not mean or even incredulous, almost admiring. I nod and watch her face change as she realizes her mistake. She opens her mouth and I know she’s going to try and back pedal, but it’s too late. I put up a hand.

“Gotta go back to the dancing.” I back away smiling and dancing as I go and she returns my smiles. Hell she even waves. And there goes that chance at a one-night stand to cure my drought. But strangely, I’m okay with it.

* * *

The postparty breakdown is a bitch because we’re all exhausted even if not drunk, and even with the freshmen from the team doing most the grunt work, moving furniture and picking up trash. There’s still cleaning the kitchen and washing the floors, which has to be done last and it has to be done well. Majik will have our asses and we’ll be eating peanut butter sandwiches for a week if we don’t take care of her domain. We used to hire a crew, but it’s hard to find good people and costs more than this year’s group wants to spend. So here we are.

My job is quality control and most importantly, to get the last drunk partygoers out and home safely. Shelby’s helping me escort a girl who can’t walk while her nervous friend texts for an Uber pickup.

“I’m so sorry. She wouldn’t stop taking those Jell-O shots.”

“Jell-O shots? I don’t remember those.”

“Yeah, one of your guys, the new one with the cool accent like he’s from England or—”

“Australia,” I say.

“Fucking Randall Bane,” Shelby says.

“That’s the guy. He’s so cute—”

“How many shots did he give your friend?” She shakes her head.

“No, it’s not like that. I don’t want to get him in trouble. She helped herself, believe me. She was out of control tonight. Her heart was broken because she couldn’t be with the one she wants.”

“I know how she feels.” I do.

Shelby snorts. “Happens to the best of us. Except for me of course. I don’t set my sights on the impossible.”

I roll my eyes at him.

We finally stow the poor broken-hearted girl into a car with her friend and send them off while they look at us like we’re knights right out of Camelot, shining armor and all. Hell of a thing that normal everyday kindness can make such an impression. It shouldn’t be so rare that these girls are starved for it.

“What do you suppose the problem is?” Shelby asks one of his cryptic questions as we walk around back to the kitchen, making sure the yard and back deck are cleaned of all debris. I don’t bother answering because I know from experience he’ll answer the question himself without prompting. “I blame the lack of gallantry in today’s society on the divorce rate,” he declares. I wince.