Page 8 of Strike Zone

“It’s called having priorities, goals, being an adult. You should try it sometime.”

Trailing closer to Wren, I stop behind her and crowd her back. “You think you know me? You have no idea the kind of responsibilities I have to deal with,” I say through gritted teeth.

No one knows the pressure I have weighing me down every day. The fact I’ve let my guard slip in front of her should bother me. The girl makes me irrational. I say things to her without thinking. My brain short circuits disabling my filter.

She looks at me like she knows me. Like she already has me figured out. She doesn’t know shit about my life. She’s too blind living off her daddy’s coffers to see how the other half truly lives.

“You’re right. I don’t know what your life is like.” Wren faces me. Her eyes shine with pity. “I’m sorry if I offended you.” Fuck that.

“You didn’t.” I brush off her apology.

She relaxes, accepting my lie. I’m grateful she doesn’t push the topic further. I will never admit her words touched a tender spot. It isn’t the first time and I doubt it will be the last. If I plan on going toe to toe with her, it seems I will have to come dressed in full armor.

“If you say so. Now that we’ve established that you are a full fledged responsible adult and I know how to have fun, can you leave me alone?”

“No. Sorry, can’t do that. See the thing is, I’m not convinced you know how to laugh and let go. Because this,” I swirl my finger around the store, “is not what I call a good time.”

“And what do you suggest one does to have a good time?”

I start to open my mouth to answer but Wren holds up her hand. “Not that. I’ve got my sexual needs covered.”

“Good because I wasn’t offering.”

“How will I ever survive,” she replies sarcastically.

“You’re funny.”

“I’m what?” she questions. I see the direction her brain is heading. Time to derail that runaway train of thought.

“Being funny on occasion is not the same as having fun. You wouldn’t know what fun is if it was standing right in front of you,” I goad her.

“That may be true. Do you know what else is a fact?” she asks.

I shake my head.

“I don’t care.” She begins to walk away but I stop her with a hand on her forearm.

“Now hold on a minute. You mean to tell me you don’t itch to let your hair down?” I tug gently on her ponytail. “Have a night out when you aren’t buttoned up to your neck? Forget about all those responsibilities you have? Have you ever let loose?” My eyes trail down her body. “Nah, I bet you’re a good girl. Aren’t you, Wren?”

“Nice monologue. I still don’t care.” Oh, but she does. She holds her head high, but her eyes shine with curiosity. Somewhere inside of her is a woman who wants to break free from the self-made mold she’s created for herself.

“Set me up with Charlie and I’ll give you a few months of fun.”

Her face wrinkles in disgust.

“That didn’t come out right. Just say yes. What do you have to lose?”

“Besides my reputation?”

I huff a laugh. “Hate to break it to you, but you ain’t got much of one to begin with.”

“It’s irrelevant. What part of I don’t care do you not understand?”

“The part that doesn’t believe a word you’re saying. I see it in those blue eyes of yours. You’re scared of what’s next. Of being tied down before you ever taste true freedom. Tell me I’m wrong and I’ll walk away.”

“No need. I’ll walk away for the both of us.”

“Just answer one question.”

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