Page 34 of Bend & Break
“Don’t worry,” I say, grabbing the rubbish bags and gloves from the trunk. “I’ve got this. You can just supervise.”
She gives me a flat look. “You’ll last ten minutes before you’re crying over old hot dogs.”
We trudge up the steps. The place looks worse in daylight—popcorn ground into the concrete, napkins plastered to the railings, cups rolling around under the seats.
Why is the majority of the population so disgusting? It’s really not that hard to walk a few steps to a rubbish bin.
Blake pulls on her gloves and picks up a rubbish bag. “This is the worst.”
“This is character-building,” I counter. “According to Doc, anyway.”
“Yeah, well. Doc’s lucky she’s cute.”
Five minutes in, I hear her gag. She’s holding a nacho tray, cheese congealed into something that should probably be studied by scientists.
“Tell me it’s not alive,” she says, holding it out like it might bite her.
“Only one way to find out.” I poke it with my gloved finger. The cheese jiggles in slow motion.
She makes a strangled noise and shoves the tray at me. “You’re disgusting. Why would you touch it?”
I grin, dropping it into my bag. “I’ll add ‘stomach of steel’ to the resume, too.”
She shakes her head, but there’s color creeping back into her cheeks, the exhaustion cracking just enough to let her amusement through. I catch it in the curve of her mouth before she ducks back down to grab another piece of rubbish.
We keep working our way down the row, trading jabs about who’s got the nastier haul—her with a stack of mystery-stained napkins, me with something that may have once been a pretzel but now resembles abstract art.
This is the first flicker of normal I’ve felt since last night. Two goofs cleaning up after everyone else, bickering about nothing, pretending the world hasn’t shifted under our feet.
Blake stretches to grab a can wedged under the bleacher seat above us, balancing on the edge of the row. I open my mouth to tell her not to?—
Too late.
Her foot slips and she yelps, arms flailing.
I lunge without thinking, catching her around the waist before she goes down face-first into the metal edge of one of the benches. She collides with me instead, hard enough to knock the wind out of my chest.
“Christ, Blue,” I manage. “You trying to die in the line of duty?”
She’s half laughing, half breathless, hands gripping my shoulders for balance. “Not my fault your fans can’t aim their soda.”
I should let go. I don’t. She’s close enough I can see the flecks of grey in her pretty blue eyes, close enough I can smell her detergent and the faint bitter trace of coffee clinging to her lips. Her laugh fades, mouth parting just slightly, and it’s the easiest decision I’ve made all week.
I dip my head and kiss her.
It’s not planned, not careful—just the raw pull of exhaustion, adrenaline, and whatever this is between us.
She makes a small noise—half surprise, half frustration—that goes straight to my cock. I tighten my hold on her waist without thinking, greedy, desperate to keep her anchored against me.
The kiss should be quick. A small thing, easily shrugged off. But the second she tilts into me, I’m gone. Heat crashes through me, sudden and all-consuming. All I can think about is how easily I could push her back against the bench, how much I want to feel her legs wrap around me, how badly I want every part of her pressed closer, closer, closer.
Her arms curl around my neck, and I swear she’s daring me to lose whatever thin grip on restraint I’m pretending to have.I’m down so bad it’s pathetic—I’d throw away every ounce of self-control if she so much as asked.
Then she pulls back, just barely, breath catching against my mouth.
Reality slams back in. The rubbish bags, the empty stadium, the mess of our lives waiting outside this moment. Her eyes meet mine, and I know if I kiss her again, there’ll be no going back.
I clear my throat, step back, and force myself to let go. “Right. Bleachers aren’t going to clean themselves.”
