“To Sheridan Plaza,” I instructed.

“Have you started drinking without me? Why would I do that?” He whipped his head around, his stormy eyes zeroing in on mine through his helmet.

“I’ve never been there,” I admitted hoarsely.

He tore his helmet from his head, the engine still running, and scowled. I was lucky I still had my helmet on, because West St. Claire’s face so close to mine, his lips a breath away from my mouth, was the definition of seduction. A film of sweat made his tousled, gold-brown hair stick to his temples and forehead and his carved cheekbones glow under the sun.

“You’re shitting me.”

I shook my head.

“You grew up in Sheridan and never been to the Plaza?”

I nodded.

“Fine. But you’re not allowed to go there by yourself. Promise me.”

“No promises.” I wiggled my eyebrows, throwing his rule back in his face. “Tit for tat. Why don’t you want me to go there?”

“The place is a cum dumpster.”

“Isn’t that where you hook up with all your lady friends?” I kept my tone light.

“Hence why it’s a cum dumpster. It’s no place for a lady.” He pushed his helmet back on and kicked his foot forward, getting back on the road.

When we reached Sheridan Plaza, West parked at the back, leading me inside. The ground floor was empty, save for a few soggy mattresses, cigarette butts, and red Solo cups strewn about. We took the concrete stairs up to the second floor. The left wing, which was probably meant to be a food court, was vast and empty. There were gym mats scattered around, framed by crates and boxes to create a ring, with enough space around it to contain at least a hundred people. The right wing of the floor consisted of small rooms that were supposed to be the stores, where there were yet more mattresses in each small alcove. Like filthy individual motel rooms. No wonder people liked coming here. The place was a makeshift brothel.

West showed me around quickly, clasping my hand in a punishing grip, like the vibes in this place could suck my tender soul straight into hell. He held the paper bag with the tequila bottle in his free hand.

“That’s basically it. Third floor is management. It’s where our offices are,” he said, not a trace of sarcasm in his voice. I snorted.

“Do you work nine-to-five?”

“More like sixty-nine.” We took the stairway to the third floor.

The minute I saw the elevator bank in front of me, my smile collapsed. He couldn’t see that, since he had his back to me.

So that was where he took all of his hookups.

Where he and Melanie melded together into one.

I needed to say something to change the subject, quick.

“What do you wanna do? When you graduate this year?” I swiveled to face him, clearing my throat.

He ran a hand through his hair, the A tattoo in his flexed inner bicep taunting me, reminding me how little I knew about him.

“Sharp change of subject. Guess I haven’t thought about it.”

“Don’t you have any preference? Ideas? Aspirations?”

“No, no, and no.” He stopped, turned his back to me, and lifted his arms in the air. “I don’t want to talk about the future. Trust fall, Tex. Catch.”

Before I knew what was happening, his body swung toward mine. I let out a little wheeze, opening my arms to try to clasp him. Crap. I needed more time to prepare. He was heavy. Really heavy. I fell right along with him, crushed by his weight, and winced, bracing myself for the cold concrete behind me. But when he fell on top of me, his whole body pressed over mine, I realized there was a mattress behind me that blocked the fall.

That’s why he’d done it.

He knew I didn’t have time to catch him, but also that we’d both fall onto something soft. He’d just wanted to see if I’d try to catch him.

Damn this man.

I cackled, shoving him off of me. He rolled around, popping the tequila bottle open. He was about to take a swig, but I snatched it from his hand before he could.

“Not so fast, birthday boy. I would like to make a toast.”

He sat up, listening intently. Seriously. He looked like a curious kid all of a sudden, about to be given a very important lecture about his favorite subject.

It broke my heart to see him hungry for my words, because it was clear he didn’t want to celebrate his birthday. He didn’t do anything with his friends and didn’t bother telling me about it until later today.

In fact, he was planning to work a shift at the food truck.

For some reason, West St. Claire wasn’t very happy he’d been born, and knowing that nearly undid my soul, breaking it to pieces.

“I would like to make a toast to a very special friend of mine, who, despite my being stubborn and sometimes a handful, is always there for me.” I tried to keep my tone casual, but I was pretty emotional, realizing all the things I said weren’t an exaggeration of the truth.

West rolled his eyes. “Get to the part where you talk about me, you little shit.”

I swatted his shoulder. “I don’t care what the entire universe says about you, West St. Claire. I don’t care that you are a fighter and you ride a monster named Christina and that you’re a man-whore. To me, you’re just a cool guy who always does the right thing, and that’s enough. No.” I felt myself flushing. “It’s more than enough. It’s everything. Happy birthday, jerk-face.”

I tipped my head back, took a swig of the tequila, and passed it to him, embracing the burning sensation slithering down my throat. We stayed on that mattress for two whole hours, drinking and talking. The conversation was all over the place, ranging from our childhoods to football, TV shows and music, then books. The more we drank, the less we made sense, until we both had two completely separate conversations at the same time.

By the time we finished the bottle, it was dark outside. The Plaza got surprisingly chilly. We were both perched on the mattress, our arms brushing, staring at the ceiling.

“Know what I feel like?” I asked.

“Pushing me away for no fucking reason other than your heighten sense of self-preservation?” he asked dryly. I snickered. Touché.

“Some real Mexican food to soak up all the alcohol.”

He picked up the empty tequila bottle, squeezing one eye shut as he stared into the bottom of it. “You mean, like fish tacos and tortilla chips?”