Page 40 of Enticing the Enforcer
“So you had the opportunity to cross her name off your list and you didn’t do it.” She tilts her head. “Why?”
“It didn’t feel right.”
Her eyebrow lifts. “Jefferson Parks. Wittmore’s resident player had a chance to bang Ingrid Flockton and didn’t because ‘it didn’t feel right’?”
“She’s just–” I cut myself off, shaking my head. “Forget it.”
Shelby studies me, and I don’t like it. “Not what? Not just hot? Not just famous? Not just a name you wanted to check off your list?”
I glance at her, jaw tight. “She’s not a game.”
That earns me a grin, wide and smug. “Oh my God. You actually like her.”
I grab a pillow and hurl it at her, but she just catches it and hugs it to her chest, laughing.
“You’re screwed, Jefferson,” she teases. “Totally, completely screwed.”
“Yeah,” I slump back against the couch, “tell me something I don’t know.”
“Fine, I will.” Shelby leans forward, elbows on her knees, eyes cutting right through me. “Ingrid isn’t the kind of girl you screw around with. She’s been hurt in the past. She puts on a brave face, but she’s lonely, Jefferson. She’s been through heartbreak. She plays it off like it’s just music, just the tour, justthe spotlight–but the way she opened her home to me and the other girls? That’s not normal. That’s someone who’s craving connection.”
I rub a hand over my face, exhaling slowly.
“If this is something you want,” Shelby continues, steady and sure, “be serious about it. It may not work out in the long run, but if you treat her like you’ve treated the other girls at Wittmore? You’ll lose her–and you’ll hurt her. And she doesn’t deserve that.”
Her words settle like lead in my chest. The worst part? She’s right. I’ve made a career out of chasing the fun, the easy, the temporary. But Ingrid? She feels like something else. Something slippery, like it could easily slide through my fingers. But most of all, she feels like something that could wreck me if I screw it up.
Reid returnsand gives me a hard stare that screams, “Get the fuck out.” I take the cue and head upstairs, the noise from the party trailing after me, and close myself in my room. It’s quieter up here, though the bass still thuds through the floorboards. I grab my phone, flop back onto the bed, and before I can overthink it, I hit her number.
She answers on the third ring, voice low–sleepy–face coming into view. “Hey.”
“Hi.”
I smile without meaning to. Just hearing her knocks something loose in my chest.
“Did I wake you?”
“Not really.” She shifts, and I see the thin strap of her tank top falling off her shoulder. “I was working on some new music.”
Of course she was. I picture her on that bus, guitar across her lap, headphones in, scribbling lyrics that’ll end up in people’s veins one day.
“Can I hear it?”
She laughs a little, soft. “Maybe when it’s finished.”
“I can’t wait.” And that’s the thing. I can’t. The idea of her keeping pieces of herself tucked away while I’m out here starving for them makes me restless. “I want to see you again.”
There’s a pause, and I watch her shifting again, brushing hair from her face, biting down on that puffy bottom lip. “I’d like to see you too, but–”
“Yeah, we’re busy,” I cut in, trying not to sound disappointed. “I know.” We just look at each other, through the phone, through the silence. The urge to be with her intensifies.
“I mean,” I push on, “I could probably get away next weekend…”
That wakes her up. I can see it on her face when she sits straighter. My eyes dart down to the teasing dip of her cleavage, the darkened outline of her nipples as they press against the cotton. My fingers twitch. “You’d come to Atlanta?”
“Why not?” I grin. “I could drag Reid with me, or Axel. For once, we don’t have hockey practice or games. We could hang out and wait for you to finish your show, and then you and I…”
I don’t finish the sentence. No way to say what I mean without laying it all bare. The things I want to say, the things I want todo–they sit heavy on my tongue. Jesus. This girl has me fucking tied in knots.
