Page 13 of Game Face

He leans back and lets out a bellowing laugh before taking my drinks and setting them on the table. He promptly sweeps me into his warm bear hug, spinning me around once, and marking me as taken for the night. I know his moves, and they’re sweet.

“Tell me the truth, how much did my boyfriend pay you to be here tonight.” I lift a brow.

He grabs the handle of his beer mug and hums with thought, taking a drink before answering.

“Let’s just say I can drink here for free all weekend.” He winks and takes one more chug before setting his mug back down.

His gaze quickly darts over my shoulder, and there’s a little flicker to his eyes. I follow his stare to Tasha as she makes her way toward us through the throbbing crowd of twenty-somethings. I smirk to myself but keep my teasing in check. It’senough that I’ve gotten Tasha to sign off on Whiskey being her roommate. I don’t need to push the matchmaking beyond that.

“She looks good, huh?” Maybe a little push.

“Always does,” Whiskey says, filling his lungs and widening his chest about a second before Tasha steps up to my other side.

“That guy was a tool,” she says, picking up our shots and handing one to me. We clink glasses, then tip them back to drink.

“He seemed sweet.” I know full well that’s a bullshit statement. I let him cut in because he seemed safe.

“Here, you can call him to talk about your portfolio,” she says, handing me a business card with his details. Whiskey snags the card from my hand.

“Joshua M. Turner, Jr. Accountant,” he reads. He tosses the card onto the floor with a flick of his hand, then grabs his beer.

“Fucking junior. Not even afullaccountant,” he utters over the rim of his mug before gulping down the rest of his beer. Tasha snorts out a laugh, and once again, I smirk to myself.

I buy another round, and after a few minutes of rest, Tasha and I make our way back out to the floor. This time, we stick together, and I rebuff the two guys that try to edge their way into our space. After nearly a half-hour straight of dancing, my neck and chest are beaded with sweat. Tasha’s pulled her hair up with a clip, but I don’t have a tie with me, so I resort to twisting my hair in my right hand and holding it on top of my head while I close my eyes and rock to the music.

“Sweet ass.”

I don’t recognize the voice at my ear, and when I drop my hair and take a step forward, I’m held against a strange body.

“Hey!” I shout toward Tasha, who’s moved a few bodies away from me with the crowd. My voice is instantly swallowed up by the music.

I push my hair from my face and twist to face the stranger pawing at me. I push my palm into a damp, muscular chest. All I’m able to see of the guy is his tight black T-shirt soaked with sweat from whatever high he must be on. Before my gaze makes it to his face, his arm is twisted behind his back, and a large man in a tight blue denim shirt is pushing him through the crowd and out the door.

“What the fuck happened?” Tasha says as she appears at my side and weaves her hand in mine.

My pulse is racing, and my eyes scan the room for Whiskey. That wasn’t him who stepped in, but where the hell is he? And whowasthat? The answer comes about a second later when Whiskey heads toward us from the front entrance, Bryce trailing behind him—in a denim shirt.

“Oh, shit. This is gonna get messy,” Tasha slurs. She’s had a couple more drinks than I have. She always does. We’re both tipsy. She’s verging on sloppy.

“It’s already messy,” I mutter.

She laughs at what she thinks is a joke. I’m not being funny, though. And now I feel gross and uncomfortable.

“I think we should go home,” I say, ignoring her when she whines at my side.

“Come on, babe. Bryce kicked that guy out. We can stay a little longer.”

My eyes snap to her, and somehow the sharpness of my stare must break through her fog, because she swallows hard and nods.

“Hey, Peyt. I didn’t see that guy. What a dick. I’m so sorry,” Whiskey says as he meets Tasha and me at the long table where our next row of shots is already lined up. Tasha slams hers before I can push it away, but when she reaches for mine, I tip it over.

“Can you call us a ride?” I look Whiskey in the eyes, doing my best to avoid Bryce’s stare.

“I’m sober. I don’t really drink anymore.”Fuck. Of course he doesn’t.

My eyes flutter their way to Bryce, and I nod.

“Will you drop us off at Wyatt’s?” Everything about this moment feels awkward, and I’m sure taking me to Wyatt’s house is the last thing Bryce wants to do on a Friday night. But Wyatt will want to see me when he gets back from his mom’s. And right now, I need to feel his arms around me to erase the feel of everything—and anyone—else.

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