Page 22 of Forbidden Lyrics

“Cherry?”

He scrubs his hand across his smirk. “Your virginity, Dove.”

Oh.

Kill me. Kill me now.

I cannot believe we’re talking about this. It’s official. If shame were a sickness, I’d be dead on the floor.

Covering my face, I scrunch into the very back corner of my seat. “Gibbs!”

“It’s not a bad thing,” he teases mercilessly. “Do you know how many guys would kill to claim that from you?”

“Oh my gosh! Stop talking.”

His laughter gets louder. “Seriously, Dove. You ever wanna get rid of that thing, let me know. I’ll make an announcement, and the guys will flood SeaBird for miles.”

I roll my eyes and peek at him through the cracks in my fingers. “Now you’re being ridiculous.”

He looks over at me, that same goofy grin softening as he considers me carefully. Again. As if he can’t figure me out.

Well, ditto, Gibson Hayes. I can’t seem to figure you out, either.

But that doesn’t stop him from slowly peeling away every single protective layer I’ve gathered until all that’s left is a very real, very innocent girl in his passenger seat.

“Trust me, Dove,” he murmurs, his voice low and husky. “Just…trust me.”

He pulls into SeaBird’s parking lot and turns off his ignition. “Come on. Let’s get inside.”

“Okay.” I reach for the door handle when he stops me.

“And thanks.”

“For what?” I ask.

“For getting my mind off shit.”

“What kind of crap?”

“Just…” He exhales and scrubs his hand over his face. “Heavy shit.”

“Anything I can do to help?” I offer.

“You already did. Which is why I thanked you,” he reminds me, that same arrogant grin rising to the surface, taunting me as he pushes open the driver’s side door. It closes with a heavy thud and leaves me alone in the passenger seat of Gibson freaking Hayes’ car. Which is absolute insanity. I shake off the realization, climb out the passenger side, and smooth down my black T-shirt while attempting to ignore the stupid butterflies that made their appearance as soon as his cocky smirk did.

“Well, then,” I reply, the warm breeze kissing my cheeks. “Don’t mention it. And thank you for the ride.”

“Anytime. Let’s get inside.”

Chapter Six

Gibson

555.326.8092: It’s Em. We need to talk.

Bull-fucking-shit.

I glare at my screen––the high from my conversation with Dove officially evaporating into thin air––before scanning the bar to find everyone content with their drinks and jabbing out my response.

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