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The air is musty, rich with sweat and marijuana. My shoes stick to the cocktails on the floor, and bass-heavy music thumps from the speakers.
The only difference between now and then is that for the first time in my life, I’m tucked behind a thick red rope at the back of the club with a woman I’m helplessly falling for and a group of intoxicated hockey players who might just take home the cup.
Eight players of the Minnesota Woodmen are spread about the VIP section, expensive bottles of tequila and vodka in their hands and a plethora of women in their laps.
Leo is currently drinking straight from a bottle of Don Julio while Scarlett and I sit squished together on a leather couch, watching them with wide eyes.
The music isn’t quite as loud in the back section, and for that, I’m extremely grateful. It wouldn’t be possible to talk to Scarlett if it were too loud.
I lean toward her and say, “Leo’s going to throw up.”
“He has a surprisingly strong stomach.”
“Nobody has a stomach that strong.”
She snorts a laugh. “You’re probably right. Tequila is a silent killer. How does the saying go? Tequila makes her clothes come off?”
I stretch my arm along the top of the couch behind her and grin. “Is that how you handle tequila, Scar? Do your clothes come off?”
“Maybe.”
I swallow hard, sobering up with her honesty. My tongue shrivels up in my mouth at the thought of her stripping down for me. Suddenly, I have the mind of a horny teenager.
“Someone get this babe a tray of tequila shots, then!” one of the players from a few seats over shouts, seemingly overhearing our conversation.
His eyes are on Scarlett, a carnal spark in them that has me flushing with annoyance. The arm I had behind her falls directly to her shoulders.
“Not happening,” I snap at him.
As soon as the guy gets up and staggers toward us, I recognize him from the scar along the right side of his face. Asher Clodelle is a third-line grinder with an attitude problem. He and Tyler have gotten into it twice already in this playoff series.
Scarlett sighs, annoyed by him, and I can’t help but smile at that.
“If you’re not into her, man, let me try to score.”
Despite the revulsion sparking in my stomach, I keep my face cool, calm. “Say shit like that again and you won’t have a dick to ‘score’ with afterward.”
He looks taken aback, as if someone telling him off is a rare occurrence. The sad thing is it probably is. His hands fly up in front of him. “Shit, sorry. I didn’t know you were together.”
Scarlett subconsciously turns her body toward me. My heart jumps.
“Clearly,” I mutter, cupping her shoulder, brushing her skin with my fingertips. She shivers against me. I lower my voice to a murmur only she can hear. “Come dance with me.”
I never dance. Never have, never thought I would want to. Maybe it’s the possessiveness I feel in my bones or the energy in the club, but all I want is to have her pressed against me, her body heat fusing with mine.
She turns and looks up at me. “I’m a terrible dancer.”
“Me too. Let’s be terrible together.”
I smile, relieved when she nods. “Fine. But you can’t laugh at me.”
“You have my word.”
I get off the couch and offer my hand for her to take. When she slides her fingers across my palm and links our fingers, I accept the sparks that break out beneath her touch like an old friend.
We head for the security guard standing watch at the entrance to the VIP section and wait as he unhooks the rope and lets us through.
As soon as we step onto the dance floor, I’m hit with a wall of nostalgia. The last time I was here, I was coaxing Beth away from Gracie and into an alleyway, where she told me I was a father. The next day, I was alone with Cooper, and Beth was admitted to a psychiatric hospital.
