Page 27 of Shot Taker

Without permission, my hand skims up his chest to his shoulder, my fingers tracing the line of the tattoo beneath his shirt. The one I chose.

But he doesn’t want me. He wants forgiveness. Absolution.

Because he’s ready to move on with his life, and if I’m smart, I’ll find a way to move on with mine.

“Too many,” I whisper before pulling away.

8

CLAY

Fuck, that didn’t go the way I planned.

Nova’s out on the floor dancing, her hands over her head and her pink hair catching the lights.

My "Kodashians," as she called them, are waving from the booth, swaying together and sending me blatant looks.

The only woman I’m running hot for is the one dancing with Brooke.

I told myself I was coming tonight to prove to her we could coexist.

It backfired.

She wants nothing to do with me, and I’m realizing I can’t take a breath without thinking about her.

When I laid eyes on her tonight, it was like taking a charge at full speed. Her bright eyes danced with fire. Her glossy lips had my dick sitting up and taking notice.

She looks like every weakness I’ve ever denied, her hair falling in cotton candy waves around her shoulders and her dress hugging every curve I never had a chance to memorize with my hands.

Or my tongue.

More than that, she’s earnest and fun and so vital it hurts. I’d follow her around on my knees if she asked me to.

We’re nothing.

It wasn’t true when I wrote it, and it’s even less true now.

Pretending I didn’t care a month ago was hell. Playing the asshole who hurt her now is worse.

She hates me.

I ache for her.

I wanted the innocent, questioning girl who arrived here, and I want the woman who paints walls and tosses retorts at me now even more.

Sending her away was supposed to save us both, but I’m still in Denver, and it turns out, she didn’t need my help.

“Shots?” Jay calls in surprise as I reach for my untouched tequila. “That’s new for you. Thought you were driving.”

“Limo’s on me.”

“You wanna talk about it?”

“Not really.”

“Alright.” He claps a hand on my shoulder and heads for the dance floor.

I hate the way the alcohol feels burning down my throat, but I’m not about to admit it.

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