Total pages in book: 91
Estimated words: 87825 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 439(@200wpm)___ 351(@250wpm)___ 293(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 87825 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 439(@200wpm)___ 351(@250wpm)___ 293(@300wpm)
“She’s messed up over something,” Amanda says. Mandy is my best friend. She’s also Ashton’s twin sister. The two of them cage me in, forcing me into the middle of the cozy circular booth the three of us are sharing. I’m a little annoyed by the furtive glances they keep throwing toward each other. Worried glances.
Probably because I called from Club Hoppin thirty minutes ago, bawling into the phone while camped out in a dirty stall in the women’s restroom. That’s where Mandy found me.
So much for not crying over losers.
“Ya think?” Ashton arches an incredulous dark brow at his sister. They’re always at each other’s throats, despite the two of them being closer than most friends. Maybe it’s a sibling thing…or a twin thing. I wouldn’t know since I’m an only child.
I slam the empty shot glass onto the wooden table and turn to Mandy, blinking several times until her porcelain complexion and sleek brown hair come into focus. “Be a best friend and get me some fries?”
With a sigh, she squeezes my shoulder. “I’m on it.” As she rises to her feet, she shoots a warning look at Ashton. “Don’t let her out of your sight. She never gets this drunk.”
“Got it covered,” he says, waving her off.
As soon as Mandy is on the way to the bar, her tall, voluptuous figure lost in the crowd of sweaty bodies grinding on each other, I face Ashton and prop one hand on his chest to keep from swaying into him. Damn, he’s built underneath that black T-shirt. Black seems to be his signature color, and it suits him since he could be the definition of dark, dangerous, and handsome.
Especially with those tattoos. His ink flexes with his biceps, and I follow the picturesque mural of a forest in the midst of a full moon traveling down one arm. I’ve seen him without a shirt, and I know his ink continues its tale on the left side of his chest. I run a palm down his ripped abs, envisioning the masterpiece on his skin.
“Do you live in a gym or something?”
“Jesus.” He removes my hand, but instead of letting go, he twines our fingers together. Holding hands is nothing new for us. We’ve done it for years.
“You’re like a different person when you drink, Sawyer.”
Smarting over his chiding tone—and his use of my last name—I give him a drunken glower and try to pull away. His grip tightens.
“Wanna tell me what’s going on?” he asks, searching my face with his light blue eyes.
Hell no, I don’t want to tell him. He has a tendency of getting under my skin with his questions and opinions on how I should live my life. Now that I think about it, I can see why he and Mandy fight a lot because he’s even worse with her.
But one glance at the worry pinching his mouth soothes my ire. Ash has always cared about me, and for some strange reason, tonight his concern sends my heart into a fluttering dance. His fingers, still tangled with mine, cause the strangest, most exciting sensation ever, and a wave of heat breaks out on my skin. I haven’t felt this way since I was fourteen and had the biggest crush on him.
Must be the alcohol screwing with my body’s chemistry.
“Can we not talk?” I don’t want to think about Jake or the betrayal threatening to well in my chest again. Telling Ash what happened is more embarrassment than I can handle right now. I avert my eyes and take in the club, enjoying this floaty feeling from the alcohol. The bass of the music vibrates through me, sending me floating even higher. If not for Ashton’s fingers entwined with my own, I could probably just drift away completely.
Not be aware of anything for a while.
“Uh-uh. Tell me what’s wrong.” He leans closer, and worry pulls at the corners of his mouth. His dark brows narrow over his eyes in two severe lines. “You can always talk to me, you know.”
“I know.”
Several beats of the pounding music come and go before he shifts at my side. “I promise, I’ll keep my asshole tendencies to a minimum,” he coaxes, mischief playing on his lips.
God, he smells amazing. His cologne infuses my senses, and I’ve always loved the way he smells—like pure testosterone mixed with a hint of the woods after it rains. I bet he tastes just as good. Unable to help myself, I lower my gaze to his mouth.
“What if I said I wanted you to kiss me?” The question tumbles off my tongue, completely surprising me. Apparently, I have no filter tonight. For once in my life, I don’t give two fucks about what comes out of my mouth.
His eyes widen before lowering to my lips, and as the whirl of music and people and voices around us blast my ears, neither of us move. Maybe my brain is on slow-mo tonight due to the booze because it takes me a few seconds before I realize he isn’t going to press his lips against mine. I’m not surprised, but it’s still disappointing. He lets go of my hand, and hot flames of humiliation lick my cheeks.