Page 31 of Twisted Collide

“And do you have a last name, Dane?”

“Sinclair.”

“Very well, Dane Sinclair, I’ll avoid you like the plague. Wouldn’t want Dad to know his ‘son’ fucked his daughter.”

“Stop.” He lifts his right hand and runs it through his hair, pulling at the locks. “Are you always this reckless?”

“Isn’t that what you liked about me?” I wink. “I’m ahellfire, after all.”

I’m baiting him. Purposely going against what he’s asked of me. I’ll pretend I don’t know him in front of my father, but right now, I want to make him feel as off-kilter as I am.

“You’re something all right,” he says, shaking his head.

“Don’t forget, I’m also a tightrope walker.”

If looks could kill, I’d be dead. “Do you ever stop?”

“No. Not really, but don’t worry, I’ll get out of your hair.” I turn on my heel but look over my shoulder. “For now.”

“Maybe you can go trace anothertrident.”

Despite my previous words, I change my mind.

I won’t be leaving him alone.

Not when he’s so much fun to play with, and right now, I need all the fun I can get.

11

DANE

If it weren’tbad enough that this has been a shitty week, starting with the impromptu meeting on Monday where I found out I fucked the coach’s daughter, now today, Sunday, it’s raining.

Of course, it is.

Why wouldn’t it be?

Today is the dayIget the Cup.

It also means I have the damn Cup ambassador tailing. I’m not in a pleasant mood, let alone prepared to be social. Oh well, sucks to be him because where we are going, he’s going to get ignored and soaked.

Not my problem.

I’ve been drinking since seven o’clock. I can’t care less if I’m a drowned rat. I’m so goddamn numb; maybe a chill will do me good.

I have refused to consider what has me more prickly than normal because I know, and quite frankly, I prefer to just stick to ignoring everything.

When we arrive at the location, the car stops, and I don’t waitfor the driver to open the door for me. Instead, I throw it open and hop out. Right before exiting the car, I grab the Cup.

The driver I hired to chauffeur my ass around is most likely not impressed by me, but I can’t find it in me to care. He made money off me, so how I act is not his concern. Nothing is wrong with his car, and I don’t pay him to like me.

My foot slips a little from the rain, not the booze, although I doubt the Cup ambassador or my driver probably agree with that assessment.

Nonetheless, I trudge through the mud. With each step I take, my clothes cling to my skin, and my hair sticks to my forehead.

How cliché can I be?

I’m the lead actor in a made-for-TV film, where the drunk hero visits the grave of his dad.

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