Page 37 of The Keeper

“I don’t like maybes.”

I glanced down at his hands. “Where are your rings?”

His eyebrows shot up in amusement. “You noticed. How cute.”

“Knock it off,” I smiled, shoving him playfully.

“I knew you liked them. I have more.”

“That should be tattooed on you somewhere. I have more.”

“You’d like that, wouldn’t you.” He shifted closer so our thighs touched. “The rings are at home. I don’t wear them at practice.”

“Oh right. The soccer thing. What position do you play?”

“First, it’s called football. Second, I’ve shown you at least one position I can play. Third,” he lifted his hands, “I’m the goalkeeper.”

“Are you good?”

A devilish smile appeared. “These hands don’t miss.”

The level of his flirting was lethal. I made a concerted effort to stay as calm and collected as possible, which was, to put it mildly, a fucking challenge.

I cleared my throat. It made his grin widen. Cause and effect.

“Did you meet Bennet when you were young as well?”

He nodded, folding his hands on his stomach. I couldn’t help but look. And because I’m obvious about it, and because we’re so close on the couch, he lowered his hands so they rested at the edge of his waistband. Right where someone could easily undo his jeans.

Clever.

“The three of you must have been huge troublemakers back then.”

“That’s one way to put it.” He rolled his head so he stared straight up, answering in a tone like he was discussing the latest news headlines. “We had our share of adventures.”

A dispassionate, far-away look crossed his features for a brief moment. I couldn’t tell if he was annoyed or pleased. “What kind of adventures?”

He shrugged. “Usual, teenage boy shit.”

“Is that how you got the scar over your eye? Usual teenage boy shit?”

His hand flew to it as though on autopilot, tracing it with his fingers. A scowl marred his elegant mouth. None of that lasted longer than a few seconds but I learned enough to know this wasn’t a preferred topic of conversation.

Didn’t stop me from pressing him for answers.

“What happened?”

He scowled again, looking at me. “I used to get into fights all the time when I was young. I got jumped and beat up pretty good one night. This,” he touched the scar, “is from the knife they used.”

“Why would someone be so violent?” I shouted. Anger simmered inside me. “Do you know who it was?”

“Hey,” he whispered, holding my chin to turn my head so I faced him. “It was a long time ago.”

“Doesn’t mean I can’t be pissed off about it.”

“You are fiery.” He smirked. “Want to know something else?”

“Sure.”

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