“A date?” I gasp, bouncing on my toes. “Are you asking me on a real live date?”
“She’s gonna come,” Benji says.
Rhys just sighs and buttons my coat, muttering something about public decency like he wasn’t eye-fucking me across a classroom half an hour ago. “Where are we going?” he asks.
“Should we take them to our place?” Benji asks me, casual like he’s not inviting two thirds of my obsession harem for afterglow snacks.
“Really?” I squeal, throwing my arms around him. “Isn’t he the best ever?”
“Yeah,” Jett says. “The best ever. Does it have whiskey?”
“Yep,” Benji says. “And pizza. And pool. Or darts.”
I grab Rhys’s arm and loop it with mine. “Do you like darts? Or are you more of a... corner-of-the-room-and-stare-while-the-rest-of-us-pretend-we’re-not-performing-for-you kinda guy?”
His eye twitches.
God, I love this game.
Are Benji and Jett gonna help me seduce Rhys now?
Because that’s the kind of teamwork I can get behind.
Or sandwiched between.
Or pinned under.
Hell, maybe on top of. Rhys looks like he’d like to press me down and Jett looks like he’d like to hold me open. Benji? My sweetheart? He’d whisper affirmations through the whole goddamn thing while I spiral.
We make the sexiest convoy to ever grace a Friday night sports bar. Me, glowing like a freshly fucked goddess in nothing but coat and glitter. Rhys walking like he’s headed to his own execution. Jett stalking beside him, murdery and hard in his jeans. And Benji, my golden boy, carrying the weight of this whole fever dream on his broad-ass shoulders like it’s nothing.
This is our place. Mine and Benji’s. Where he taught me I could be more than feral want. Where I realized someone could see me and not run. And now he’s sharing it. With them.
Benji is my heart. And he’s fucking sharing.
He scores us a table in the back near the dart boards, tucked just behind the pool table. It’s busier than our lunch date, loudand warm, and the Friday crowd feels more us. Darker. Messier. Hornier, maybe. Perfect for a night of very poor decisions.
Benji and I order our usual: one large pizza to share. My half sausage, pineapple, hot peppers. His banana peppers, sundried tomatoes, and pepperoni. And a side of cheese sauce for illegal dipping.
Rhys and Jett both wrinkle their pretty noses like we just pissed on their childhoods.
Jett grunts and orders the meat monster, every single animal they’ve got back there, all murdered and fried into one pizza.
Rhys, predictably, places the most Rhys-ass order I’ve ever heard. White sauce. Mushrooms. Zero joy. He has no right to wrinkle his nose at me and Benji.
“Bring them a side of cheese too,” Benji says helpfully. “And a pitcher of draft.”
“Round of whiskey shots,” Jett adds.
The server leaves.
I bounce a little in my chair, squirmy and smug.
“So we were talking about body paint,” Benji says, all sunshine and sin.
“You were talking about body paint,” Rhys corrects, sipping his water.
“Let’s not dismiss body paint so quickly,” Jett says. “It’s artistic.”
