Page 70 of From the Wreckage
The waitress rattles off the specials, but I don’t hear a word. Every time Grayson leans back, looks at his phone, or scans the TVs playing the game, Bri’s eyes flicker to mine. And when she does, it’s not shy, nor innocent.
It’shungerburning in them.
She takes a slow sip of her soda, her lips wrapping around the straw seductively, and my pulse spikes so hard I nearly choke on my beer.
Grayson doesn’t notice. He’s too busy talking about fishing tournaments and some jackass from town who tried to buy his property last month. I nod when I’m supposed to, answer when I have to. But my focus is on Bri. Always Bri.
Every stolen glance. Every hidden smile. Every brush of her foot against mine under the table when her dad’s laughing at his own story.
It’s a goddamn game of Russian roulette, sitting here like this, pretending that she’s not mine.
And the worst part? I know I’ll play it again.
Because I can’t stop.
Not now. Not ever.
The wings arrive, steaming hot and drowning in sauce. Grayson digs in right away, reaching for extra napkins like it’s the best part of his week. “Best damn wings in three counties,” he says, grinning through the steam.
I pick one up, forcing myself to focus and play along. To be normal.
But my eyes cut to Bri when she dips her finger in the sauce and slowly licks it.
I nearly snap the wing I’m holding in half as she sticks the tip in her mouth, sucking on it.
She lifts her water glass, her hazel eyes on me over the rim, knowing exactly what she’s doing to me.
Grayson doesn’t notice. He’s busy talking about how The Timberline’s switching beer distributors and how he told them to “stick with what works.” I grunt in agreement, barely hearing him. My focus is on the girl across the table, biting into a wing with sauce glistening on her lips.
And when her tongue darts out and slowly licks it off, my chest seizes.
Christ.
Under the table, her foot brushes mine. Light at first, like she’s testing me. When I don’t move it, she presses harder, sliding her sandal against my boot. My jaw clenches so hard it aches.
“You good, Everett?” Grayson asks, wiping his hands on a napkin.
I force a smile. “Yeah. Wings are good.” My voice is tight and gravelly, like I’ve swallowed glass.
Across the table, Bri hides her smirk behind a sip of water.
Her foot climbs higher, resting against my ankle, heat seeping through the denim and covering my skin like a brand.
I drink half my beer in one go, trying to cool the fire she’s stoking. It doesn’t work.
Grayson launches into another story, this one about the time his bike broke down in the middle of nowhere and a state trooper had to haul him to the nearest gas station. He laughs, shaking his head at the memory.
And Bri? She leans forward, elbows on the table, her V-neck tee dipping just enough that I catch a glimpse of the sunflower necklace I gave her glinting between her breasts. My gift. My mark on her.
My hand tightens around my beer bottle until my knuckles go white.
Every tilt of her head, stolen glance, and slow drag of her tongue across her lips is deliberate. She’s taunting and testing me... And God help me, I want to fail.
I shift in my seat, clearing my throat, trying to get some air into my lungs.
If Grayson weren’t sitting with us, I’d already have her pressed against the wall of this booth, showing her exactly what happens when she plays with fire.
Grayson’s still chuckling about his bike story, wiping sauce from his beard with a napkin. He doesn’t notice a thing.
