I tilt my head. “That’s all? He never said anything else?”
“He doesn’t like me very much, or my dad,” he replies. “I think I probably made him angrier, but I didn’t want him gettinganywhere near you. If he hurt you again, I would end up behind bars.”
“I don’t need you to protect me.”
“I know. That doesn’t mean I won’t.”
My nostrils flare, and my jaw tics as I sit forward, leaning my elbows on my knees. “Going forward, don’t you dare put yourself in his firing line. He’ll come for you if you try to stop him. I’ll deal with him. He’s all talk anyway.”
The invisible scars on my mentality are screaming that I’m a liar. The physical damage to my skin is burning. He’s not all talk. He’s all fists and words and laughing at the way he hurts everyone around him. I can still see him grabbing Mom’s hair and smashing her into the wall. And how I laid beside her for hours until she woke back up and acted like nothing had happened.
I can feel the sharpness of the blade hacking my leg. How I didn’t get muscle or nerve damage is a damn miracle.
Blaise nods in agreement, but I know he isn’t listening to a word I’m saying. I swear, if Dad hurts him, I’ll lose my shit and kill both him and Jackson.
“I’m heading out now,” he says, but doesn’t move.
“Right.”
His eyes flicker around the room, back to me, then to his fidgeting hands.
I try not to smile and have to suppress it by biting on my lip. He stays still as I shift off the sofa and shuffle over on my knees until I’m between his legs. I grab his chin and jerk him to me, pressing my mouth to his.
“Behave,” I say against his lips as I snatch them between my teeth, sucking while he whimpers deeply. Releasing him, I stand, adjusting myself by shoving my hand down my sweats to hide my boner. He’s a little breathless as he looks up at me withexpanding pupils. So fucking hot and delicious. I want him, in ways I’ve never thought before.
Smirking and backing away, I grab the vacuum and take it to the cleaning closet, only hearing the front door closing a few minutes later.
Samson whistles to a tune I’ve never heard as we walk down the sidewalk. Keith and a few other lads from the team are here too. We’ve gone to a few bars, only getting into two of them with our fake IDs.
Keith is drunk because he has no idea how to stop at two shots. I think he downed a full bottle of tequila before the dude behind the bar said he wasn’t serving him any more. Samson is of age, though – he’s the one who’s been going to the bar for us.
I check my phone, feeling uneasy that I haven’t heard a word from Blaise. On social media, he’s tagged in photos in Shingles, a bar just down the street that I may or may not have tricked my group into going to.
His friend has his arm over his shoulders as he smiles for a group photograph.
It’s tagged as “Dream Team,” and it annoys me enough that I change the settings to hide any further posts from his friends. Petty, but I don’t care. He can happily sit with his friends and talk to them, but he can’t spare a second to ask me what I’m doing, or if I’m missing him?
He doesn’t even know I’m out.
When we reach the bar, I stand outside and light a cigarette, pressing my foot into the wall. Keith hovers before he checks his surroundings and lights one too.
“Why are you acting sketchy?”
“I told my new girl I’d quit smoking.”
“I thought she was out of town?”
“She is,” he replies, checking around us again between each draw. “But her folks or friends might catch me.”
I chuckle and inhale, filling my lungs with the toxic smoke while I slide my phone out again and spot a new message that has my heart accelerating.
Blaise: Your friends are here.
Well, well, well. He remembers I exist. I put the smoke between my lips and type out a reply, but then I pause. It hasn’t even been a full minute since the message has been received. Will I look desperate if I reply right away?
Tucking my phone back in, I listen to Keith talking about his new girlfriend, and how his parents nearly kicked his ass for the broken window. I offered to pay a few days ago, but he refused and said it was his fault since he was the one who made up the game in the house and locked everyone in. He didn’t know Jackson had a gun, or that he was fucking Allie.
Not that I care. Allie has become nothing but a faint memory in my mind. The ex who cheated constantly, who never made me happy, and the more I think about her, I hated the bitch for the way she thought she could manipulate me on a daily basis.
