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Beretta’s smile is evident in his words. “I never said I didn’t like it. I said it wasn’t the one for you, and it wasn’t.” His taunting chuckle fans over my neck, his grip teasingly tight. “It was the one for her.”
I tear away, slipping from between the two, only to spin on my heels and face them. “Classy. Now if you’re done with me, go find another toy to play with, maybe one who’s interested. I’m—”
I bump into someone, my head tilting up and to the side.
Wicked blue eyes slam into mine.
Ransom.
His large hands find my hips, and in one swift move, I’m spun and tugged into the firm lines of his chest. Yes, I can envision the hard cuts beneath his cotton dress shirt from the hasty graze.
“You’re what...” he mocks, an arrogant brow lifting as he slowly dips closer. “Otherwise... occupato?”
I swallow, lifting my chin and putting a foot of space between us.
“So, you’re a lip-reading stalker then?”
The corner of his mouth twitches but that’s all I get.
I flick my eyes to the ceiling and shove past.
I’m surprised when they don’t follow, and completely unsurprised, when my friends do.
All at once, the girls fire off questions.
“Um, hello. What was that?” Jules’ bloodshot eyes widen in the fluorescent lights.
I force a short laugh, glaring at the bartender’s expression when I ask for an ice water.
“I bumped into him,” I lie, dropping a twenty on the counter out of spite, winking thanks at the chick behind it. “He told me to watch where I was going... and that I had a nice ass.”
I chuckle at myself, and the girls gape.
Thankfully they’re too tipsy to have noticed I was the fresh fruit in the center of a double-layered cake moments before that, and as Dax, Scott, and a few others slip up beside us, the entire interaction is forgotten.
I dance with Scott for several more songs, and when his hands fall to my hips, my eyes close. Suddenly, it’s not Scott’s hands on me at all, but larger, rougher ones.
Or so my mind plays tricks.
It also convinces me not to spoil the sight until everyone decides they’re ready to eat, and the time comes to leave.
We head straight out of the building, stumbling along the sidewalk and toward Cali’s driver’s car.
A loud revved engine demands attention, and several of us search the late-night fog.
Jules and Amy push me aside to slide in, the others following, but I stand there, gripping the edge of the door, the man waiting to shut it inching it closer in hopes that I’ll soon climb inside.
Since my vision fails me, I join them in the back, and not two minutes down the one-way street, we’re walking barefoot up the iron spiral walkway that leads to the entrance of Ocean’s Pasa, a restaurant on the coastline that stayed open strictly for our service tonight.
The guys head straight for the private, dome-encased balcony and drop into our seats right as the chef comes out to say her hellos, but we girls hang back outside a moment longer.
They’re perched and ready for a full-on photo op, duck lips, ass pops and all, as they prepare to bribe the busboy to be their cameraman, but I offer to be the one behind the lens instead. Of course, no one protests.
I snap a few shots, quickly passing back their phones and they slip inside, Cali’s hand grabbing mine to tow me along, but once again, the roar of an engine purrs my name.
I pull free, glancing down the street, and this time, I find its culprit.
A sleek little sports car, matte black in color, rolls by me.
Tucked behind the wheel is Arsen, Beretta in the passenger seat, and when I look into the back, Ransom.
Ransom by his lonesome.
It’s dark, but I swear all three sets of eyes flick up, finding mine through the darkness.
“Jameson, come on!” Cali calls.
I cut a quick glance her way, and when I look back to the street, it’s empty.
With a low rasped laugh, I let go of the railing and make my way inside. Scott pulls the chair at his side out for me, so I round the table and lower myself into it.
He leans forward, grabbing the drink he must have ordered for me, and places it in my hand.
I accept, and he drapes an arm along the back of my chair as he jumps back into the conversation with his friends.
As I stir the clear liquor with the swizzle stick, the little sports car—a Camaro—flashes in my mind, and a slow smirk finds my lips.
Convertible hair it was.
I don’t know how these girls drink day in and day out.
I literally feel like death rolled over twice and I had a fraction of what they did last night, as is the continual trend.
They like to give me shit about being ‘unable to hang’ as if such a statement is meant to be an insult. It’s not, but they’re not being assholes about it; it’s safe to say my once elementary school besties realize we’re no longer carbon copies of each other personality-wise. Five years apart will do that.
