Page 92 of Offside Devil

“Mira is—” I shake my head. “Nothing is going on.”

He snorts. “Is that why you said her name in your sleep? Because she means ‘nothing’ to you?”

I clench my jaw. Drunk Zane apparently has no dignity whatsoever. Yet another reason never to drink again.

“Listen, I’m all about you finding some woman and settling down,” Jace says, “but not if it’s going to fuck with your head like this. She went out on one date and you ended up hungover at my house in the middle of the damn afternoon. It’s not healthy.”

The middle of the afternoon.

“Shit!” I jump to my feet, groaning and paling as my body adjusts to the new altitude. “What time is it?”

“It’s almost three,” Jace answers. “Gallagher is going to be home in a few minutes and I promised Rachelle you’d be gone by the time they?—”

“Fuck. Fucking fuck.” I snatch my dead phone off the couch and search the empty coffee table. “Keys. Where are my keys?”

I was supposed to be home last night. Instead, I’m going to roll in almost twenty-four hours later.

What if CPS dropped in for a visit? What if Mira reports me for abandoning Aiden?

Aiden. Fuck! How is Mira explaining this to him?

Jace laughs. “If you think you were in any state to drive last night, then you must still be drunk. Your car is at the bar.”

“Shit. Right. I’ll order an Uber.” I’m halfway to the door when I remember my phone is dead. “Can you call me a?—?”

“I’m already on it.” Jace is still looking down at his phone when he waves me out. “Go on, fuck off. Your ride will be here in three minutes.”

“Thanks, man.” I stop, one hand on the door. “For everything.”

Jace rolls his eyes. “Yeah, yeah. No repeats of this, though, yeah? I have a kid now. I can’t be acting like one.”

“Yeah,” I mutter. “Me, too.”

The car ride back to my condo is real-time punishment for my sins. If I had my phone, I’d give the driver negative stars. Karma is a bitch, and apparently, she drives a Prius.

Linda Q. takes every turn like she’s competing in the Monaco Grand Prix. By the time the car skids to a stop in front of my building, I peel myself out of the backseat and almost kiss the pavement. I’m so glad to be stationary.

Even the thought of the elevator makes me gag, so I hoof it up the stairs. I’m a professional athlete—I get paid to go to the gym and stay in shape—but I’m sweating by the time I press my forehead to the cool wood of my front door.

“Just one second,” I whisper. “I’ll wait here for just one second.”

Before that second can come to pass, the door yanks open.

It takes every ounce of core strength I have not to faceplant in my entryway. Well, core strength and Mira’s hands pressed flat to my chest.

She yelps as I grab her hips and try to right myself before we end up sprawled on the floor.

“Zane,” she gasps.

Any other day, I’d hear the breathy way she says my name and imagine her body underneath mine, her breath in my ear.

In my current state, my fantasies mostly involve being buried underneath my blankets in a dark room with no sound at all. The cold, lifeless vacuum of space could be nice.

“Sorry.”

She opens her mouth to say something and then recoils, her nose wrinkled. “Where have you been?”

My tongue feels fuzzy and my breath tastes horrible. I’m guessing I don’t smell nearly as nice as Mira’s fruity perfume. Which, right now, is making my stomach flip in the worst kind of way.

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