Page 98 of The Wrong Heart

Shane’s aggravated baritone rumbles over to us, and I rise up from the table, noting how Parker takes his time backing away, his hand lazily gliding down my spine. It feels like he doesn’t want to let me go. I come to my senses and pull myself together. “Shane, this is P—”

“We’ve met,” Shane bites back.

Oh, right.

The smoldering.

Sensing how incredibly awkward this is, Leah attempts to come to my rescue with an overdramatic hair flip and an invitation to accompany her to the bar, but Shane stands there with stoic firmness, his wrists crossed and draped over the chalky end of the pool cue.

I glance back at Parker, who is aiming his own death glare at Shane.

This is not going to end well.

Shane cuts in again, his words pointed at Parker. “Is there any good reason why you decided to put your hands all over my girl?”

Parker doesn’t reply. He just stands there, glowering.

I take the lead, spinning around and planting my palms against Parker’s chest as if to prevent him from doing something regrettable, even though he seems to be content with the silent intimidation act. Maybe I just want an excuse to touch him, too. “Let’s go talk?”

It takes a moment for his eyes to flick back to me, but when they do, they flare with heat, and a fever stirs within me. He nods slowly. “Yeah… okay.”

I turn back to my group, throwing a knowing look at Leah, a promise of future explanation at my brother, and an apology at Shane. Clearing my throat and pacing forward, I murmur, “Be right back.”

—TWENTY-THREE—

I’m not a violent person.

And that’s mainly because I’ve never given a shit about anything enough to have an emotional reaction that strong. But when that motherfucker put his hands on her, wrapped her up in his arms in some kind of macho, possessive move—like shebelongedto him…

I saw red.

Jealousy crawled through my veins like a new kind of poison. Something sinister and unfamiliar. All I wanted to do was knock his teeth out, drag her the fuck out of that place, then scrub her clean of that asshole.

Every muscle in my body aches. Every cord in my neck strains. Every heartbeat feels like a ticking time bomb as I follow Melody out of the bar and into the damp humidity, almost ramming into her when she comes to an abrupt stop and whirls around to face me.

Her chest heaves with quick, hard breaths. “What are you doing here?”

I’m not answering that. She fucking knows what I’m doing here.

Instead, my hands clasp her hips, backing her up until she’s pressed against the distressed brick building. A little whimper escapes her when her shoulder blades hit the wall, and the sound thunders through me. “He called you his girl.”

“Does that bother you?”

My eyes dip to her lips as my fingers curl around her waist. Pink and parted, demanding to be kissed. Tensing my jaw, I admit, “Yeah, it does.”

“Why?” she probes gently.

Fuck. She wants to talk about my feelings, while all I want to do is claw them out of me. I drop my forehead to hers, closing my eyes through a ragged exhale. “Because… I remember every noise you made that night, every breath you took, the way your body trembled and swayed, molding into mine like it was designed that way,” I confess, the words spilling out of me like a pathetic purge. “I remember every goddamn inch of you, Melody, and you sure as hell didn’t feel like his girl.”

You felt like mine.

I don’t say that last part because I’m not prepared to deal with the implication of it, nor the inevitable fallout.

Melody’s eyes drift closed as she swallows my words down, her fingers gliding up the front of my abdomen, and then my chest. When I tug her arms away, her lids pop open, a glare surfacing. “I can’t touch you. I can’t kiss you…” A huff of disappointment hits the summer air, and she slithers from my hold. “This is pointless.”

I watch her saunter away, but she doesn’t head back inside the bar—she traipses down the back alleyway, her heels clicking with each deliberate step. I call after her, following. “Where are you going?”

“Away from you.”

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