“Well, shit, look at that. Uptown Sidney is settling in just fine with us little people.”
My immediate response is to defend her. To tell Grant to lay off her and protect her as if she were a friend.
What the fuck’s my problem? I’m in this damn predicament because of her and her influence and I’m going to help her?
Not a chance in hell.
I look to where she’s standing, her back against the wall, a drink in her hand. Her heels are high, her skirt is fitted, and goddamn those legs of hers call my eyes every chance they get. The curve of her calves and the hint of her cleavage in the V of her shirt are both subtle but so in my face it’s as if she’s calling to me. My phone has been turned off, battery removed, number disconnected.
And, yet, it still rings.
“That’s Sidney Thorton?” Grady chimes in, following the question with a low whistle.
“Yep.” I tip the bottle of beer to my lips without looking back at her.
“Well, damn. She’s all grown up,” Grady says it with a swear. Maybe I should remind him of his wife, who would likely have some creative payback for him checking out someone else.
Not that I can blame him. I’ve been looking her way a lot more than I want to admit. Especially with Grant’s words from the other day rattling around in my mind. The “she’s nothing like Claire,” and the “even if I participate, I’m the one who has something to gain, not her.”
I still don’t buy it.
She’s standing there just like everyone else, and yet, there is this air about her that sets her apart. The way she holds her head high, her back straight, her eyes sharp with a distrust that makes no sense. Then someone comes up to give her a hug, and I laugh, knowing how much she probably wants to fucking kill me.
Turnabout’s fair play, sweetheart.
I expect her to frown, to be rude and refuse the greeting, but then she smiles. She smiles, and fuck if I can’t take my eyes off her as her expression turns genuine, her laugh rings out, and the people around her hang on her every word. It’s hard to despise someone when, with each look, with each drink, you want to walk across the room and go talk to them.
An elbow hits my arm and jerks my attention from her. “You’re turning her down, why?” Grady asks as he looks over to his wife and shakes his head before looking back at me.
“You make it sound as if she asked me out on a date and I said no.” I laugh and take a sip of who knows what number beer I’ve had. “She asked me to be in a contest, not have a night of hot sex with her. That’s all.”
Hot sex. With Sidney?
I could probably compartmentalize my feelings for a bit and take that on.
Jesus. What am I thinking? Too much beer. Too much bullshit. Too much of a buzz to think straight.
“If she were to ask you out, would you go?” Dylan asks, and I’m already shaking my head no. Grady’s wife should know better.
Asking someone out and having sex with someone are two completely different roads.
“She hasn’t asked.”
“What about a night of hot sex, then?”
Damn it.
“Dylan,” I warn.
“That isn’t a no.” She throws her hands up and laughs as Grady rests an arm over her shoulders, pulls her in closer, and presses a kiss to her temple.
“No,” I murmur.
“That’s such crap,” Grant throws in. “Like utter bullshit. Since when would you say no to that?” He tips his beer in Sidney’s direction and lifts his eyebrows.
I wouldn’t. That’s the plain and simple answer.
“I’ve got a hundred on him sleeping with her,” Grady says to Grant.
“Not taking that bet because I’d lose in a heartbeat.” They high five across the table.
Bastards.
“She’s too much like Claire.” Another soft response, more to myself than to them. Déjà vu takes me back to another place, another time when I was young and stupid and really thought it didn’t matter where you came from or what you did so long as you were in love.
I’ve learned.
“Again, I call bullshit.” Grady snorts.
“The type who’ll reel you in with her looks . . .” I glance her way when her laugh sounds off in perfect timing with my comment. She’s halfway across the bar, but fuck if I can’t hear her as if she were standing right next to me. “Then leave you high and dry because she’s so damn selfish she doesn’t think of anyone but herself.”
And goddamn it if pretty boy Vince Garda didn’t just walk up to her and hand her a drink. She smiles, but it’s the look on his face—the one that says he’s a man determined to leave here with her tonight—that has me gritting my teeth and slipping up on what I just said.
“Whoa. Wait.” Grant throws his arms out in front of him animatedly as his wife, Emerson, tilts her head back and laughs. “Hold up. I thought we were talking about you getting laid. One night. Maybe a few nights—”
“High and dry means you want more than a few nights with her,” Grady finishes for him. I hate when my brothers are in perfect sync like this—reading each other’s minds and finishing each other’s thoughts. I hate it exponentially more when it’s aimed at picking on me. “And honestly, bro, with her, I think you’d prefer low and wet, if you get my drift?”
“Christ,” I swear as I stand from my seat and the room spins slightly. “You two are a bunch of little old ladies.”
“Leave him alone,” Dylan pipes in. “It isn’t his fault the woman going to such great lengths to get him to participate in her contest is drop-fucking-dead gorgeous with legs for days and boobs I’d kill to have.”
“I, for one, like your boobs and legs,” Grady says before kissing her soundly. I roll my eyes.
“You two are sickening. Both sets of you. Christ, can’t a guy just drink in peace without having to watch you make googly eyes at each other?”
“We only make googly eyes because we know we’re getting laid when we get home tonight.” Grady glances in Sidney’s direction and then looks back to me. “The question is, are you? Because you’re sitting here making googly eyes at her.”
I point to the shot of tequila next to my beer and make a show of picking it up and downing it in one fell swoop.
“Ah, yes. You want to drink in peace,” Grant says and laughs. “Go right ahead and keep drinking in peace because that woman over there manipulated you into a corner that I kind of think you enjoy being shoved into.”
I glare at Grant and his snarky smile.
“I can think of where else he wants her to shove him,” Emerson delivers with a look of complete innocence that has me breaking a smile and laughing.
“Christ, Em.”
She shrugs. “Well, it’s true, right? Hell, if I were a man, I’d want her. Looks like someone may beat you to it, though.” She nods toward Sidney, and we all turn to find that Vince’s hand is on Sidney’s arm. My fist clenches at the sight. My jaw ticks. Jealousy I don’t want to feel rages.
The table falls silent, but I don’t notice until I turn my attention back to the four pairs of knowing eyes staring back at me. “I change my bet. A hundred bucks says Gray leaves here tonight with her and gets laid,” Grady says as he slowly slides a hundred-dollar bill across the table as if I can’t see it.
“He doesn’t move that fast. He has anger issues,” Grant says with a wink. “You’re on.”
“I am not sleeping with her tonight. Not ever.”
“Yes, you are.” Grady sits back in his seat.
“If you aren’t sleeping with her, then what’s it hurt to head over there and talk to her. You haven’t said a word to her all night, but you sure as hell have been staring at her.” Grant shrugs.
It’s true, but who says I want to go talk to her? It’s so much easier to be mad at her than to admit she’s played me well. If I keep my distance, then I can’t get myself in trouble . . .. But, goddamn, how good trouble sounds right now.
“Fuck it.” I reach across the table and steal Grady’s shot sitting there. I don’t back down from his stare as I down it, welcome the burn, and know that it won’t be the only thing that burns tonight.
When I slam the empty glass back down, he finally protests as I grab his hundred-dollar bill and shove it into my pocket. I wave him off and then make my way across the bar.
I’ve already spoken to almost everyone, shaken their hands, had a laugh with them over how ludicrous it is that we are celebrating a guy being decent when it should be the norm. I’ve explained how this whole situation was blown out of proportion and that there was no weapon, but no one seems to listen. I’ve played down the damn contest, which everyone but me seems to care about me winning.
A few people stop me, say hi, ask about my parents, who opted to stay home and hang with Luke, but my eyes are on Sidney. And Vince—or rather, Vince’s hands and how they are continually touching a woman I have no claim on.
A woman I want no claim on.
Then why do I fucking care?
But by the time I reach her, my blood boils with irrationality spurred on by too much alcohol.
“Can I have a moment?” I ask as I walk up to her and grab her elbow, pushing her down the darkened hallway.
“What is your problem?” She hisses as she fights me every step of the way.
We get looks. I get looks. I don’t care because all I keep seeing is Vince’s hands on her arm. His eyes on her tits. His bullshit game I can spot a mile away.
I find the closest door down the hallway leading to the bathrooms, and it opens. I push her through it, barely noticing that it’s an office of sorts before the door is shut, her back is up against it, and my mouth is covering hers.
Take.
Goddammit. That’s my only thought as I fit my lips to hers and take out my anger on her mouth with tongue and teeth and every fucking lick and nip in between.
“What—”
“I’m so pissed at you.”
It’s all I say. It’s the only chance I give her to come up for air before my lips are back on hers. Before my tongue wars with hers. Before my body admits it would beg, borrow, and steal in order to taste every other part of her.
Groan.
I swallow the tiny sound she makes in our kiss as my hands hold her neck still and my lips wage an all-out assault. She hesitates—just a split second—before she reacts. Before her body bows into me, and her mouth argues back.
Fist.
Her hand in my shirt. Her other hand at the back of my neck as our bodies meet—pressed knee to chest. Her perfume in my nose. Her hair tickling my cheeks. The feel of her tits against my chest.
Give.
I can’t get enough.
I’m mad at her.
I want her.
I don’t want to want her.
Christ, do I want her.
“Gray.” A murmured protest.
I tear my lips from hers, shove off the door I have her pressed against, and stride to the other side of the room.
“You are . . . you just . . .” It’s as if I can barely breathe. Christ, I’m mad at you.”
She stands there, lips parted, chest heaving, and golden brown curls messed from my hands, but her eyes look hurt. A hurt I don’t want to see but can’t deny.
“Why?”
“You did this,” I accuse as I try to manage the anger that’s waging a war against my desire.
“Did what?” Her eyes narrow. Her hand goes to press against her chest.
“Made me want you.”
It’s her laugh that incites me now. That, and the taste of her kiss and the feel of her skin and the sound she made in the back of her throat and the goddamn ownership in her touch. Things I didn’t want from anyone. Things she makes me want from her.
Over and over.