Page 81 of Blindside Sinner

He hasn’t gone two steps past the front of the car when I stop him with my fingers curled into his bicep. He looks down like he wishes he could sever my hand from my wrist, but I’m not letting go.

“Beck, I?—”

“Yo, gorgeous.” Dixon, materializing out of nowhere, leans in and kisses my cheek. “You smell edible.” When he pulls back, he winks. “Looks good, too, doesn’t she, Beck?”

Beck just grunts.

“Hot date with Dr. Love?” asks Dixon.

I shrug. “I don’t know that I would call it that.”

“Oh, come on!” He grins. “That sweater is just begging a guy to peel it off. Right, Becky?”

“Dix,” I snap, “has anybody ever told you that you’re a pig?”

He cackles. “All the time. To which I say…oink oink.”

“As long as you’re aware.”

But obviously, he’s unaware that Beck is shooting him the death glare right now.

I fidget nervously in place. “I should… go.” I look at Beck, who hasn’t moved.

“Beck, don’t you want to wish Sloan a good time?” Dix is poking the bear on purpose, I know that.

It doesn’t mean the bear won’t still rip his fucking head off.

In response, Beck scowls, turns, and walks away. He doesn’t even glance back.

Dixon looks back and forth between us for a moment with an inscrutable expression on his face. Then, with a shrug, he waggles his fingers at me in a goodbye wave and lopes off after his teammate.

I stand in place for a while. I can’t help but feel like I’m letting him down. Beck made me feel all those things, but what did I make him feel? Did he feel big and mighty and loved and seen?

I don’t know. I wish I did, but I don’t.

All I know is that my stomach is clenched tight and I want to just explain this all to him so that he’ll understand.

But no one can make Beckett Daniels understand something he doesn’t want to.

I wish I could find it in myself not to care, but I do care. I care so, so much.

Sighing, I turn and clamber back in the car. I’m running late already, so I blow through a yellow that might have been a couple seconds closer to red than I thought. Right on cue, a pair of red flashing lights swirl in the rearview behind me.

“Fan-fucking-tastic,” I mutter.

I pull over to the side and watch the clock tick off precious seconds until the officer comes to the window. He shakes his head as I crank the window down then frowns. “License and registration.” His voice is gruff. He peruses the documents, his scowl growing deeper and deeper. “Is there a reason you’re driving Beckett Daniels’s car, Ms.… Reeves?”

“I work for him. I just dropped him off at the rink.”

“In a big hurry, are we?”

“A little bit, kind of.”

“Hm.” He frowns. “Hang tight a minute.”

He walks back to his car. I snap off the radio and sit there, stewing in silence for a while with that bubbly, anxious feeling in my gut.

A little while later, the cop comes to the window again and hands me a ticket through the window. “Can’t just run red lights, ma’am.”

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