Page 76 of Spring Break Fling

“Don’t touch her!” I said, panic rising. “She’ll press charges. She wants to be the victim.”

Samantha smirked, knowing exactly what she was doing. Her eyes glinted with malice as she shoved over a shelf of supplies. My stomach sank as I realized she was trying to ruin me. She was going to get me fired. As soon as Marcus heard about this, my ass was out.

And I couldn’t blame him.

“Come at me, Nikko,” Samantha said. “Try and stop me.”

I didn’t have to. Jess lunged at Samantha, tackling her to the floor in one swift move. Samantha shrieked, flailing wildly, but Jessie held her down like a seasoned pro.

“Call the cops,” Jessie said, glaring up at me. “Now.”

I pulled out my phone and made the call. Samantha was screaming we were hurting her and demanding the police come and save her. Thankfully, Diego grabbed his phone and started recording the situation.

“Dude,” Diego said with a shake of his head. “Your ex is certifiable.”

I didn’t answer. I couldn’t. I was fucking humiliated. Samantha was never going to stop until she ruined my life. This was exactly why I never got involved with anyone. They always let me down and they always fucked me over.

26

HANNAH

Istared down at my tattoo. The tiny initials hidden within the roses had certainly led me on a wild ride. I spun my fork absently in my pasta. The restaurant was crowded with couples and small groups of friends, their laughter and chatter filling the air. Meanwhile, I was here, sitting solo at a table for two, twirling marinara-soaked spaghetti and contemplating the most ridiculous existential crisis over ink.

Did I really need the cover-up?

Nikko’s initials didn’t bother me so much anymore. In fact, they had started to feel kind of nice. It was a secret that only he and I really knew the meaning behind. I had a piece of him etched onto me. It was probably going to be the only reminder of him I would have. Beyond the memories, which I would keep very near and dear to my heart. The ink was something I could keep when I left in three days.

The thought made my stomach flip—not like the charming swoop of a rollercoaster, but more like the stomach-plummeting dread of realizing you sent a raunchy text to the wrong person.

“Get a grip,” I muttered to myself, poking at a meatball. I was officially losing it.

Nikko was messy and I hated messy. It wasn’t just his job or his looks or the fact he rode around on a motorcycle. The guy had angry women showing up at his job. I could only imagine how many other ladies had been left in his wake. Nikko was a player. I knew that. I just never really considered the consequences.

Like scorned women. And damn, that chick was turbo pissed.

Just then, my phone buzzed. I picked it up without even glancing at the screen. With the way my day was going, I assumed it was more bad news. Apparently, it was impossible for a woman to enjoy a sad plate of spaghetti in peace.

“Hello?”

“Where are you?” Nikko’s voice came through, rough and low.

I straightened in my seat, my pulse quickening. “Uh, Mangia’s. That Italian place by the water. Why?”

“Stay there. I’ll be there in ten.”

Before I could respond, he hung up. I frowned at my phone. What was this, some kind of ambush date? I signaled the waiter for another glass of wine. If Nikko was coming, I was going to need it.

The waiter delivered my wine and I took a long drink, steeling myself for whatever was coming next.

Nikko showed up exactly nine minutes later, wearing a black hoodie that hung just right on his frame, his hair still damp from a shower. When his dark eyes met mine, I immediately knew something was wrong.

“Hey,” he said, sliding into the chair across from me.

“Hey, yourself.” I poked at my spaghetti. “Want me to order you some wine? Maybe some rigatoni?”

“I’m good.”

It was too weird for me to eat spaghetti if he was just going to watch. I sat back and met his gaze. “What’s going on?” I asked, trying to hide the dread.