Page 30 of Bite Your Tongue

“Sorry, it’s not funny,” I say, trying to wipe the grin from my face. “It’s just that … it’s insane that you thinkIwould have the ability to hurt her,Saylor Sawyer.She could chew me up and spit me out, and I’d probably still thank her for it.”

A flash of understanding covers his face, and I know he’s choosing his next words carefully.

“See, man, you say that now, but things change. And when they change … what happens then? I’m stuck between my best friend and my sister, feeling like I have to pick a side?” He shakes his head somberly. “And you already know what side I’ll choose.” The concern in his tone is palpable, and it’s warranted—that I know.

“You don’t have to worry, man. I told you I have a thing for her. It’s not reciprocated.”She just likes to use my dick—that’s all.“I can’t help it that I like her, okay?”

“Since when though?” he snaps lightly. “For how long?”

I drag my hand over the back of my head, stopping at my neck. “I’ve been intrigued since the first time I met her, but she’s always had a dude around.” I cringe. “Lots of different ones. But then … I don’t know, man. I just got … more interested.”

He stares straight ahead, finishing his beer and smacking the bottle on the bar in front of us.

“Don’t worry about it, Smitty. Like I said, it’s not reciprocated.” Reaching forward, I smack his arm. “Now, what the fuck are you doing, sitting here, grilling me about your sister? Go get your girl.”

Sadness and worry fill his eyes. “She left with Saylor; I just watched them walk out,” he murmurs, clearly distraught.

“So then, go to the hotel.” I shrug. “What are you so afraid of?”

“A lot,” he whispers, cringing. “Gemma Jones scares the shit out of me. I don’t want to fuck it up.”

His eyes land on the door again, and I can sense the internal battle he’s having, deciding whether or not to go to the hotel right now.

“Go,” I say, jerking my head toward the door.

It takes him a moment, but before long, he’s strutting toward the exit—on his way to Gemma, I assume.

I look around the club, pissed at how this night has ended for me. But then I remember … her flight isn’t taking off for a while.

I put the Starbursts, Sour Patch Kids, and Pringles up on the counter. I need a drink for the flight, too, but I’ll have to get it once I go through security. This store had too much candy for me not to take advantage of it.

“Is this everything?” the older lady says unenthusiastically. I suppose if I had to work the night shift at the airport, I’d probably be the same.

“It is,” I answer politely, though my eyes bug out at the computer as she begins to scan my items.

Most expensive candy, it seems.

Now I know why my mother always made us buy our snacks before we went to the airport when we were kids. Then again,she used to do the same thing at movie theaters too. Dad always made fun of her for it, but in a playful, teasing way. She didn’t care though. Him calling her cheap wasn’t stopping her from bringing out her large purse from the closet and loading it up.

Once I pay and she begins to throw my items into a bag, a deep voice startles me from behind.

“That’s a whole lot of sugar for a red-eye flight,” he drawls, and I’d recognize Ryder’s deep voice anywhere. “Figured you’d be trying to sleep during it. Then again, you may go into a sugar coma.”

“Thank you. Have a wonderful night.” I smile, taking the bag from the lady before I spin toward him.

He’s wearing a ball cap pulled low and a sweatshirt with the hood up, no doubt not wanting to be recognized. After all, they won their game in Florida tonight, so there could be some fans who aren’t too happy with the Bay Sharks.

“Following me to the airport, Cambridge?” I tsk him. “I mean, on a scale of one to a hundred, just how obsessed are you with me?”

“A thousand, obviously,” he quips back, jerking his chin toward the candy. “Don’t ignore me; that’s a lot of sugar for a late-night flight.”

“I can’t sleep on an airplane,” I say as we begin to walk out of the small store. “So, instead, I plan to make myself sick on candy while I watchDesperate Housewives.”

“Solid plan,” he says, clearly amused. “How old is that show? I swear my mother used to watch it.”

“Like … twenty years old,” I say, shrugging. “And yet it’s still one of the best.”

When we make it out into the large part of the airport, where there are rows and rows of seats, he waves his hand toward one for me to sit in before collapsing in the one beside it.

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