Page 47 of Blindside Sinner

“You really think that’s appropriate?” I resume my pacing down the stairs, scowling like a gargoyle. When I reach the bottom, I give her an up and down, scowl some more, and shake my head. “We’re going to a bar, not a strip club.”

“I’m aware.”

“People are going to see you.”

“You mean I’m not invisible?” she exclaims with mock sincerity, a hand laid over her chest. I can’t help but peek at the cleavage showing through her cutout.

“Sarcasm is the lowest form of wit.”

“I’m aware of that, too. But low wit is all you understand.” Then she smiles, andgoddammit, all my comebacks wither and die on my tongue.

Letting her get under my skin is bad enough. Letting herknowthat she’s gotten under my skin is a million times worse. But I just can’t help it. I’m caught up in the dark swoop of her mascara, the way she bites her lower lip as she waits for me to fire back something condescending.

“Nothing to say? That’s okay, sweetheart.” She pats my cheek and grins. “Strong and silent works for you. Especially the silent part.”

And then she pirouettes away and sashays toward the door.

Just like earlier in the garage, I stand there for a minute and brood. Sloan is infuriating, of course, but it’s not just that—something about melovesthe battle. The give and take. The push and pull. It’s a ride that throws me left when I’m expecting right, drags me up when I’m expecting down—and I’m savoring every fucking second of it.

Sloan lays on the horn from the garage. I sigh, straighten out the rolled-up cuffs of my button-down shirt, and go outside.

“Did you have to change your tampon?” she asks sweetly when I get in the car.

“Just drive the damn car.”

She smirks, bites at her lower lip again—fuck me,the throb of my dick seems to say—and then smashes the gas pedal like it’s going out of style.

I hang on like my life depends on it, because the way she’s driving, it certainly does. I don’t let go until we’re at The Dragon. She pulls into the lot, whips into the front of the valet stand, and wrings every last bit out of the brakes until we reach a squealing stop.

She’s abusing my three hundred-thousand-dollar Ferrari to get a rise out of me. It’s working, but I refuse to give her the satisfaction.

She doesn’t bother waiting for me. She tosses the keys to the stammering valet boy as she emerges from the driver’s seat, long-legged and lean, then continues that hip-switching model walk right into the front of the club.

The swarm of patrons and the wall of bouncers both part like the Red Sea as she approaches. A dozen dudes eye-fuck the shit outof her, helpless to do anything but stare. I would know—I’m one of them.

I shake my head and follow her inside. By the time I enter, she’s found her friends. I see a girl in all black who looks like Wednesday Addams and another chick with huge hoop earrings, the three of them with their heads bowed together as they gossip and giggle. Luckily, they herd themselves off to a booth in the corner.

I sigh and turn my back on them. The music is thumping through the sound system and the dance floor is already gyrating with some very interesting female bodies.

The vibes are pristine. The night is young.

It’s time to have some fun.

Adrian, Dixon, and Colin come swaggering over right then, grinning ear to ear. “Look who made it out of his jail cell!” croons Dix.

Colin punches me in the shoulder. “Your little prison warden gave you your balls back for the night?”

“Fuck you both,” I reply succinctly.

Adrian chuckles. “Watch out, boys: Daniels brought his A-game tonight. ‘Fuck you both’—very witty, very original.”

I give him the finger, which doesn’t do much to refute his insult, and then we go sauntering off to the cordoned-off booth awaiting our arrival. Silver champagne buckets glisten under the strobe lights and a bottle of premium tequila is calling my name. One of the club promoters that Dixon is friends with greets us all and starts chattering about how stoked he is to have us all here tonight.

“The Seattle Wave superstars, here in my club! What a fuckin’ night! Let’s have a shot to get things started, yeah, gents? Come over here, I’ve got anything you…”

But his voice fades away, because my attention is suddenly drawn elsewhere.

I see him before he even gets close to her. White Adidas sneakers, dark blue jeans with ripped knees, a purple polo with the collar flipped up like it’s 2004. Worse than all that though is the look in his eyes.

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