Page 65 of Heresy

Okay. Now I’m really confused.

“You were upstairs?”

“No, Jackass! I was downstairs.”

She pauses, her shoulders rolling back and her eyes narrowing more.

I shuffle my feet in place, pull my hands from my coverall pockets, but then tuck them inside again. What is she talking about?

A frustrated growl rumbles her chest when it’s easily seen that I have absolutely no fucking clue.

“You started a fight at Myth. That fight caused an entire stampede of people all over the damn club. I got locked in next to the bar to keep from being trampled, and when the cops finally caught you and brought you downstairs, some asshole bumped into me and caused me to spill my drink all over myself.”

I fight a smile at the drink part, and my lips wobbling do nothing to help her current mental state.

How the hell does Gabe keep such a straight face in situations like this? Making a mental note to have him teach me his methods, I take a step toward her, only for her to take three back.

“Don’t come near me.”

Heeding the warning, I stay in place.

“Okay, so you got wet again, but in no way was that my fault.”

We shouldn’t even be having this conversation. The entire point of bringing her down here was to state some ridiculous ass price for repairing her car and then demand she use a cosigner for the contract.

I already know she has no support network in place besides her father, per Taylor’s research. So obviously, she’d use her dad. I’d have his information, and she could leave.

Fuck the shit about Everly. That’s Jase’s problem, and despite Tanner’s demands, I really don’t give a damn.

This job was supposed to be easy.

So why the fuck isn’t it?

Because Brinley is mouthy. That’s why.

The weird part is, I really want to do things to that mouth.

Things she most likely wouldn’t allow.

But things that would shut her up for a few hours and make me feel really good in the process.

It’s too bad I don’t see that happening.

Ever.

“Not your fault?” Her face turns a dark shade of crimson, and I’m still confused as to why.

“You’re the one who started the fight. If not for you, the club wouldn’t have turned into absolute chaos. The guy wouldn’t have bumped into me, and I wouldn’t have gotten yet another drink poured on me.”

Sheesh. You’d think she was doused with acid, being as angry as she is.

“Okay, so you’re mad about getting wet again. Was your shirt ruined or something?”

Women are weird about their clothes. They have favorites and shit. Maybe I can just toss a few dollars at her to replace it and move on from this ridiculous argument.

“No. That’s not why I’m mad. And who gives a fuck about my shirt…”

That’s what I’m saying.

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