Page 4 of Still Beating

“I don’t smoke. Sorry.” I continue to put distance between us, but I can feel the man leering at me from a few feet away. Ugh.

“Let me buy you a drink, kitten.”

I cross my arms when I catch him staring at my cleavage. “No, thank you. I’m just waiting for my ride.”

“I can give you a ride,” he sneers, his innuendo thick and not at all subtle.

Cue more gagging.

“Again, I’ll pass. Have a nice night.”

I never thought I’d be wishing for Dean to hurry up and get here. Even that jerk face is more tolerable than John Wayne Gacy over here, boring his x-ray vision through the front of my dress.

The man prattles on, making my stomach churn. “You’re a pretty little thing, you know.”

Ew, ew, and more ew. The man is creeping his way into my personal bubble, and before I decide to head back inside the bar, Dean’s black Camaro comes careening into the parking lot with its beast of an engine and supercharged tires. He pulls up in front of me and exits the car, tossing his keys into the air and catching them with his opposite hand. He glances at me, waiting for me to ‘ooh and ahh’ or something.

So not impressed.

My arms are still folded defensively as he approaches, his gaze flickering between me and Gacy. My body language screamsI hate you, but my eyes are sort of pleading for him to get me out of here. “Hey,” I mutter with little emotion.

Dean frowns at the man beside me, so I turn my attention to the right and notice the creep isstillstaring at my boobs with a salacious grin on his face. Dean’s eyes narrow, then cut back to me. “Ready? ‘Cause I’m tired as hell, and—”

“She your girl?”

Gacy interrupts, and we jerk our heads towards him simultaneously.

Dean is quick to reply. Too quick. “Hell, no.”

Jesus. As if I have leprosy or syphilis or the bubonic plague. I glare at him, insulted. “Gee, thanks.”

“What?”

“Nothing. Let’s go.”

I stalk forward towards the passenger’s side, feeling Dean close on my heels.

Gacy issues us a farewell that makes my skin crawl. “You two enjoy your evening.”

I hop inside the car and slam the door, locking it instantly. Dean follows suit, looking over me and out the window at the stinky carrot man.

His eyes are still narrowed and thoughtful. “That creep touch you?”

I flick my gaze across Dean’s face, annoyed by how attractive he is. He runs a hand over his bristled jaw, scratching at the shadow of stubble, and I catch a whiff of his musky, cedar cologne and a trace of leather. I chew my bottom lip, leaning back against the seat. “No. Not like you’d care,” I mumble, turning to look straight ahead.

“I care, Corabelle. You’re in our wedding party—can’t have you chopped into little pieces and hidden under that guy’s floorboards before the big day.”

I snap my head in his direction, catching the playful smirk on that stupid, handsome face of his. “I hate you.”

“You know I’m just messing with you,” he winks.

“I still hate you.”

Dean’s eyes rove over me, assessing me in some way, as he twists the key in the ignition. The engine howls to life. “You know you’re just opening yourself up to scary dudes when you dress like that,” he says off-handedly, his wrist dangling over the steering wheel as he puts the car into drive.

I snort at the audacity of his claim. “Victim shaming,” I supply. “You really are a catch. My sister is so lucky.” I blink at him, fluttering my long lashes dramatically.

“That’s not what I meant,” he counters. “I’m just saying, when you look like that, guys notice.”

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