Page 46 of Clipped Wings

We were surrounded by flesh, but I was only aware of his—and not in a good way. As I moved backward, the bottoms of my shoulder blades hit the lip of the pool. I just wanted to go home. No, I wanted to go to Jack’s apartment and wait for him until he came home. Even if he’d been in an atrocious mood as of late, I’d take any version of him I could get my hands on. That was always my motto—any Jack was better than no Jack. Somewhere along the line, I’d forgotten that.

“I’m sorry about them,” Jamie said, treading closer. His caution was endearing, but I refused to let my guard down. “They love to gossip.”

“Yeah.” I crossed my arms in front of my chest in defense. “I got that.”

Jamie bit his lip, glancing down at the swell of my breasts. Ah, shit. Jamie might’ve been a good person, but he was still a man. That Y chromosome was currently wreaking havoc on his system. I fought the urge to roll my eyes, dropping my hands to my sides instead.

“Why did you come tonight?” Jamie asked, bringing himself a little closer to avoid a group of girls splashing behind him. “I mean, don’t get me wrong, I’m glad you did. This just doesn’t seem like your type of place.”

I chewed on the inside of my cheek. “I guess I don’t know where my place is anymore.”

People bobbed in and out of the pool, creating waves as the DJ spewed Kendrick Lamar. Those nearest us pressed closer, the alcohol swimming through their veins as the water churned around their bodies.

Clearing my throat, I turned back to Jamie, who was smiling with a furrowed brow. “I’ll be honest with you, Jamie. As petty as it sounds, I came here because I knew it would piss off my boyfriend.”

Jamie tilted his head, breaking out in a short laugh. “I appreciate the honesty. And I’d love to help you with that.”

“Um, wait,” I stammered, holding up my hand as Jamie drew closer. His body was inches from mine now, his hands caging me to the edge of the pool, his head angled down as he waited for me to continue. “That wasn’t an invitation. I shouldn’t have come.”

He smirked, his light blue eyes dancing with mischief. “If coming to a party makes your guy angry, what would kissing me do?”

My mouth dropped open at his audacity, then I snapped it shut, clenching my jaw with a warning. “That would be your death sentence.”

Jamie clearly didn’t understand the truth to my words. He thought I was egging him on. Did my hand pushing against his chest mean nothing? But he was drunk. We both were. He wouldn’t be making this type of outlandish move under any other circumstance.

As his face neared mine, I reeled back. My rigorous defensive training crossed my mind, but a swift knee to the groin wouldn’t work underwater. My hesitation cost me useful seconds, during which Jamie managed to press his average erection against my hip. What the actual fuck? Did he plan on having sex in a public pool?

Oh, no. I had to get out of here before I got Jamie killed.

* * * *

Jack

The muffled shot flew through the underground room, echoing off the bare cement walls. I dipped the barrel down, inspecting my target with narrowed eyes. Shot to the heart. Angling the barrel, I fired two more rounds, which overlapped themselves on the forehead of the paper dummy.

I set the gun on the metal shelf and snatched the Macallan, not bothering to pour myself a glass—I was sipping straight from the damn bottle. Pressing the button that triggered the belt, the paper dummy flew toward me. I tore the sheet off, crumpled it, then tossed it over my shoulder.

“What are you doing down here, Jack?”

I groaned, rubbing the heels of my palms on my jawline. Mick tossed the crumpled paper dummy into the air, waiting for my reply.

“Target practice,” I bit back, knowing that wasn’t the answer he was looking for.

There was a shooting range under the Emerald. The door to the basement was in Mick’s office and no one got in without him handing them a key—except me.

“No,” Mick said, throwing the paper ball at me, where I clutched it against my chest. “You’re avoiding her.”

“Where is she?”

Mick shrugged. “She left a few hours ago. Stormed through the gym like a firecracker.”

Heading toward the metal bench at the back of the basement, I threw the paper into a nearby trash bin. Mick followed, bottle of Macallan in one hand, my pistol with an empty clip in the other.

“I’m fucking this up, aren’t I?” I could talk to Mick like a brother. We’d grown up on the streets of Boston together. He’d arrived in America a year before us. His family reeked of poverty, just like mine. We’d been forced into the same groupings in school because of our accents.

We hadn’t gotten along at first. In fact, we had despised one another—hated that everyone assumed we’d be friends because we were from the same country. We had gotten into a brawl on the playground. Beaten and bloodied in the principal’s office, we’d burst into laughter as we awaited the announcement of our suspension. As it turned out, he liked fighting just as much as me.

“Yeah, you’re probably fucking it up, but what do I know?” Mick huffed, sitting on the cement floor. He took a sip of the Macallan, then passed it to me. “My longest relationship was three months.”

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