Page 45 of Best Served Cold

“My middle name is Presley,” River said with a grin.

“Imagine if yours was Elvis?” Nick snickered.

I winked and sidestepped him.

“Wait, what?” Nick hooked his finger over my waistband and tugged me to a stop. “You’re fucking with us, right?”

I shrugged and peeled his hand off my pants.

“How about we let Zane go do whatever he needs to do,” Stone suggested from where he sat a bit removed from the rest of us, a thick book in his hand.

“You’re right.” Nick batted his eyelashes at me. “You go do whoever you’re gonna do and Imma get the info out of River.”

I slipped out of the back room as everyone turned on my brother.

I half expected to be greeted by nothing as I made my way behind the building, but Noah was there, leaning against the bricks with his hands shoved in his pockets and his face angled up toward the sky.

He looked…good. For some unknown reason, my stomach swooped as I trailed my eyes over his big frame. I’d pulled him on stage to fuck with him, but he hadn’t been the only one rocking a boner.

I already knew what he felt like thanks to that night at Mason’s party, but dancing with him, for him, had been a completely different experience. The trust he’d shown by letting me handcuff him to a pole and give him a lap dance in front of a room full of strangers was almost as heady as seeing his pleasure-slack face and blown pupils as I grinded against him.

Not wanting to be caught creeping, I kicked a small rock against the building to alert him to my presence.

He watched as I approached, his eyes wary. “Are you pissed?”

“Pissed? No,” I said. “I told you I worked here.”

“True, but that doesn’t mean you’re cool with me just showing up.”

“I figured you would.”

Noah pulled a packet of cigarettes from his pocket.

“You smoke?” I’d never seen him light up at work.

“Not anymore.” He toyed with the flap of the package.

“Having that seems a bit counterproductive to quitting.”

“Sometimes I’ll buy a pack and carry it around when the cravings are bad. No clue why. I guess I like to test myself. See how weak I am.”

“Addiction is a disease,” I told him. “Cigarettes are addictive. Not being able to quit doesn’t make you weak. And setting yourself up for failure is either self-destructive, or an excuse to relapse.”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean it sounds like you’re giving yourself permission to relapse by carrying around the thing you’re trying to quit. Or you’re punishing yourself for starting in the first place by making it easier to fail.”

“Or maybe I’m just a dumbass with no impulse control.” The corner of his lip curled up in a smile.

“That too.”

“How’d you know I was here? Was it that owl guy?”

I snort-laughed and leaned against the wall, crossing my arms. The nights were getting colder, and the chilly air seeped into my thin t-shirt. “Nah. I saw you as soon as the lights went up.”

“You did?”

I nodded. “You liked watching me.”

---