Page 45 of Wicked Serve

She eyes it longingly. “Nope.”

“You sure?”

“Absolutely.” She lifts her chin, candy corn earrings bobbing. “Cold? What cold?”

I peel off the jacket and drape it over her shoulders. She scowls, but burrows into it all the same. I hide my smile as she surreptitiously sniffs it.

“It’s on theme. Black leather is very Halloween-ish.”

“I like the way you think.” She jumps off the curb, taking my hand. “Moorbridge is so pretty, come on.”

She leads the way into the heart of town, past rows of houses already decorated for Halloween. Most of the storefronts are closed by this time of night, but streetlamps and strands of orange lights looped around the trees illuminate everything. The restaurants are still busy; as we pass, music and conversation bleed into the air. She points out the arcade, the bookstore, and the movie theater. The bakery apparently sells used records, but only on weekends, and the noodle shop on the corner has great lunch specials.

“Which you’d know if you came here as a freshman,” she says as we round another corner, heading for the park. “So really, I’m acting like your tour guide right now. I should’ve done this ages ago.”

“Movie specials on Tuesdays,” I recite obediently. “And the arcade sells beer, but the slushies are better.”

She beams. “You’re listening.”

“Obviously.” I push her against the nearest surface—the brick exterior of what looks like a bar—and give her a rough kiss. The gloss on her lips tastes like pumpkin spice. “What’s this?”

She twists around. “Oh, Lark’s. College bar. I’m sure the guys will drag you here eventually.”

The name rings a bell; Mickey mentioned it the other day. The season has gotten off to a rough start, so we haven’t had much reason to celebrate, but I like knowing where we’ll go when we turn things around. Visualizing victory is half the battle.

“What about you?” I run my fingertips over the exposed part of her midriff. “If I came here after a win—”

“Love the confidence,” she says, her voice hitching, “but—”

I take a step back as a couple guys leave the bar, and she cuts herself off. They look like students, chatting among themselves as they decide which direction to go in.

“Ugh.” She yanks on my shirt until I follow her behind a car. She crouches, observing the group with a scowl on her face.

“Why are we hiding?” I whisper into her ear.

She jumps, shaking her head. “I hooked up with the guy in the red shirt a couple times last year.”

I snag my thumb in her belt loop and pull her closer. “Him? Really? What’s his name?”

“What, are you jealous?”

I give the guy a closer look. Backwards baseball cap, red T-shirt just tight enough to show off his muscles, and a cocky sneer on his face. I tighten my grip on Isabelle. “He looks like a douche.”

“Don’t get too excited,” she says, rolling her eyes. “He wasn’t that great.”

“In bed?”

She’s blushing furiously, which is adorable, but I don’t let her off the hook. “He wasn’t as good as me, was he?”

“Nik.”

“I’ll bet he didn’t fuck you as good as I do.” I suck on her earlobe, earring and all. “And that you didn’t come as hard when he touched you.”

She shudders. Her hand covers mine. “I didn’t.”

“Didn’t what?”

“Didn’t come.” She jerks out of my grasp, steadying herself. She flops the arms of my jacket over her hands, her gaze settling somewhere near our feet. “He didn’t make me come.”

---