Page 1 of Blindside Me
CHAPTER ONE
Jade
Clubs are loud. Sweaty. Full of bad decisions marinating in vodka and regret.
So naturally, I’m here.
I needed this. All of it.
The loud music.
The drowned-out conversations.
The escape.
“That’s the best artwork I’ve seen yet.” The bartender sets my third tequila shot down, gesturing to my napkin.
“Thanks.” I eye thenapkin, where I’d unconsciously doodled a gravestone with the words REST IN PEACE, DICKHEAD above a silhouette. The likeness of Roman’s jawline is uncanny.
“Let me guess, an ex?”
“That obvious, huh?” I crumble the drawing and toss it in the trash behind the bar.
“He must’ve been an ass.”
“You have no idea.”
I suck the lime wedge as if it had insulted me and slam the glass down. The burn makes me wince, but I don’t let that slow me down. I’m up and weaving through the crowd until I hit the dance floor. Swaying my hips, I chase the beat to drown out theex who cheated, the school I torched on my way out, and the uncle who decided to be Father of the Year a decade too late. Sweat beads on my neck as I spin, letting the strobe lights blur my edges, the world shrinking to sound and movement.
It doesn’t take long before I spot him.
Tall. Broad. Cut from varsity-level arrogance and protein powder. Black T-shirt stretched across his chest like it’s two sizes too small. He looks like trouble. My kind of trouble.
But there’s something familiar about him that I can’t quite place. Maybe a poster in the student union, that cocky grin plastered above some hockey team slogan?
I shake it off. He’s probably some athlete who thinks his stick-handling skills translate off the ice, too.
Maybe I’m projecting. Whoever he is, there’s no denying his hotness level. He’s the kind of distraction I’m looking for.
Mr. Hottie watches me with hooded eyes and a slow drag of his gaze, like he’s already undressing me in his head. Usually, I’d roll my eyes and move on.
But tonight? I want to feel wanted.
Crave it even.
I keep moving to the music and don’t bother hiding the smirk that slides across my face as he comes to me like it’s fate. Or maybe just pheromones.
His hands land on my hips. Big, warm, confident. I lean back into him, letting the heat of his body chase away the chill of every damn thing I’m running from.
I don’t care who he is. Hockey player, frat boy, undercover Calvin Klein model. I’m not asking for his resume. Just his hands.
His grip tightens, like he knows exactly what I need. And maybe he does.
Because tonight, I’m in control.
Tonight, I’m not looking for a boyfriend. I’m looking for a mistake I’ll regret tomorrow morning, with a six-pack I won’t.
“What’s your name?” His rough, calloused fingers slide up my curves and rest on the skin just below my shirt. They just don’t graze me; they claim me, leaving invisible lines of fire that make my breath hitch. I arch into his touch, needy and fucking desperate for more.
