Page 52 of Black Roses

Her eyes finally take in everyone else at my table, landing on Piper, who’s more than a little drunk. She points at her. “You were at the benefit.” She holds out her hand in greeting. “Janice Greyson, daughter of Neil Greyson.”

When Piper gives her a questioning look, it’s hard not to laugh.

Janice continues, “You know, Neil Greyson. As in the guy who owns the Giants.”

“Oooooooh,” Piper draws out, as if she’s just now learning this. She shakes Janice’s hand. “Piper Mitchell, daughter of Bruce Mitchell. As in the guy who likes to fuck my mom.”

Shocked and speechless, Janice mumbles, “I guess I’ll see you around then, Mason.”

“I guess so.”

Everyone at the table watches Janice walk away and then all at once, we burst into laughter. But my jovial spirit dies the instant I hear it. My eyes snap to Piper and my stomach turns as I listen to her drunken, maniacal laugh. This laugh—it’s not like her usual melodious school-girl giggle. This laugh; this hollow, cackle of a sound, it’s eerily familiar. I don’t like it. I don’t like it one goddamn bit.

I have to sober her up. I walk around to her chair. “So how about you dance with me so I’m not a big fat liar?”

She feverishly shakes her head. “I don’t dance.”

I laugh and lean in closer. “You don’t date either, yet here we are on our sixth date.”

She turns her head to face me, our noses mere inches from each other. “Fifth,” she says. “The benefit doesn’t count.”

I smile. I smile big. She’s counting, too. “Okay, fifth.” I take her hand in mine, giving her a tug. “Come on, one dance. Everyone else will come.” I raise my voice and say, “You guys are up for a dance, right?”

Before Griffin and Gavin even process my question, Skylar and Baylor are dragging them onto the dance floor with ear-to-ear grins. I get the feeling they would do anything to get Piper and me together. To get their little sister to stay in New York. I can’t say I blame them. I feel the exact same way.

We all dance in a group, but my eyes never stray far from her. The way her body maneuvers on the dance floor mesmerizes me. Much as it does when I watch her run. She has that same fluid grace in her dance moves.

The liquor flowing through her seems to loosen her up, making her relax and be present in the moment. Something I’ve observed is quite hard for her to do. My plan, however, is to sober her up before bringing her home with me. The last thing I want is to take advantage of a drunk Piper—something I’m sure would kill our relationship faster than a hot knife slicing through butter.

After a few songs, sweat starts to dot her brow and she removes her light cardigan, tying it around her waist to reveal a tank top that hugs every curve of her beautiful figure. She raises her hands above her head, dancing with her sisters in a carefree manner I’ve never witnessed before. I think this is the real Piper. The happy, easy-going, untroubled Piper from before she was broken by whatever secrets she hides from the world.

A new song starts and the entire population of the dance floor simultaneously breaks into the choreographed arm movements made popular by a stupid YouTube video. We smile and laugh and sweat and dance. It’s the best time I can remember having since before my parents died.

Piper and I stare at each other without a care of how ridiculous we must look as we mindlessly do the silly dance. I mouth one line of the lyrics to her. Something about missing her before she came into my life.

Words I wish I could tell her without scaring her away. Words that I know would.

As if I had orchestrated it perfectly, the next song that plays is a slow one. I waste no time pulling her into my arms, our sweat-drenched bodies mashing together.

It could be the alcohol. It could be the endorphins. It could be the way our bodies fit together like the seam of a flawlessly-made football. But watching her now—seeing her look at me like this, our eyes burning into each other with this intensity, I know one thing for sure. I’m moving to New York.

In fact, I’m so fucking deep in New York, I can’t see past my knees.

“Come home with me tonight,” I breathe into her ear.

~ ~ ~

I can barely keep my hands off her. It was exponentially hard to sit at our table in the bar knowing she was coming home with me. But the longer we sat there, the more she sobered up. She was so out of it, she knocked over a few glasses of water. I ended up just buying her a few bottles of it—less likely to spill.

“Have a seat.” I point to my sofa. “Get comfortable. Pick a movie if you’d like. I’ll be back in a minute.”

In the kitchen, I prepare her favorite drink. I know she has sobered up, but I think she might need a bit of liquid courage for whatever might come next. For what I hope comes next. My dick twitches when I think about kissing her again. I know we need to take it slow. I’m willing to do that. Hell, Iwantto do that. But I don’t think I can go another day without kissing her again.

I return to the living room, placing our Jack and Cokes on the coffee table behind her. When she turns around, I’m more than a little aware of how she’s removed her cardigan again as my eyes hone in on her already pebbled nipples straining the material of her tank top. I’m also aware of how longingly she’s looking at the movie in her hand.

“You really like that one, huh?” I ask, lifting my chin at the same title we watched last week.

“Yeah.” She nods. “I always wanted to play Roxane. She’s my favorite heroine.”

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