Page 33 of Icing Hearts

Everything goes fuzzy. I’ve seen Tory kiss plenty of girls. But it has never bothered me as much as this does. He glares at me as he angles his head, relishing my reaction before he pulls away.

This wasn’t a moment of passion. It started as an unfortunate happenstance and morphed into a calculated, tactical move.

Anger singes my neck and ears. I kick back another shot with Henry and his friends. Cinnamon whiskey.

“Take your shot,” I manage to grit through the burn.

Tory’s smirk eats away at something inside me as he stands there, legs wide, arms crossed over his broad chest—challenging. He wipes some lip gloss from the corner of his lips with a thumb. Then shoots. Scores.

“What was that you said about me losing, Charity?”

A drinking game has never made me want to cry. Until now. Because we haven’t been talking about a stupid drinking game and this whole exchange is a painful reminder of that. Tory and I are playing a game with much higher stakes. In our game, the rules are unclear. But I’m certain, no matter what, I’ll lose.

Tory might win in theory, but I think we both see that he’ll be losing, too. It’s Russian Roulette, and no one is willing to pull the trigger. Maybe that’s a terrible analogy, but my vision is blurry around the edges and I don’t know how much more I can take.

Henry and I miss our next toss. Tory and his partner make theirs. Two cups left. They’ll win. It’s obvious. I can’t aim for my life when I get this tipsy. I decide I’m done. With all of it.

“You win,” I call across the table, spinning on my heels to push my way to the dance floor. Someone’s hand closes around my elbow. I guess Tory wasn’t expecting my departure.

But when I turn, it isn’t Tory.

Chapter 21

Clara

Vince sways with a lazy smile. I look beyond him and see Tory glaring at us.

Maybe it’s because he’s drunk, but Vince has stated that he hates dancing, so when he asks, I’m pleasantly surprised.

People push against us as I lead Vince to the center of the room and clear out a space for us. For someone who doesn’t dance, Vince does a good job following my lead. It’s fun and sweet, and when he kisses me for the first time, I kiss him back.

Then the song ends, and I see a tall figure out of the corner of my eye, almost as tall as Vince, but far more menacing.

“My turn.” Tory’s sharp voice cuts through the roar around us.

Vince sloppily bows out and he kisses the top of my head before he goes to the kitchen.

I cross my arms. “Maybe I don’t want to dance with you.”

“Well, I do, and I tend to get what I want.”

My brows furrow, and I wish I could blow steam out of my ears like in cartoons.

“That right there is your problem”—I poke the center of his chest with my index finger—“Maybe it’s time you start living in the real world and stop acting like an entitled brat.”

He stares down at the digit still poised against his t-shirt. “Oh, I’m a brat?”

“Yeah,” I shout.

“What are you gonna do about it?” Tory takes my hand and moves it to the back of his neck.

When my fingers touch the ends of his hockey-boy hair, I soften immediately. My voice comes out more teasing this time. “Mess around and find out, Tory.” My words bely the fact that I’m melting—twisting my fingers in his waves like I can’t help myself.

He quirks his head. “That’s a lot of talk from a girl who got a new phone today.” Tory leans back slightly and gives the DJ a nod.

“Tumblr Girls” comes on over the speakers. The mix is deep and throbbing—slow. Tory hooks his thumbs into the belt loops above my back pockets—thumbs grazing my skin. We start moving, and I’m not sure when it happened, but there was a cataclysmic shift in our dynamic. He changed the rules and I’m playing catch up.

“You okay?” Tory asks a minute later. He sounds sincere. My stormy thoughts must be seeping out onto my face.

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