Page 97 of Blindside Sinner

Dix shakes his head at me. “I miss the old Beck.”

LaDuke nods. “Me, too.”

“What are you jackasses talking about?”

“This moon-eyed, crybaby version of my best friend is a shitty substitution for the one who would’ve gone to the club and dragged her onto the dancefloor, wound her up until she was ready to do him then and there, then brought her home and banged her skull into his headboard until she saw God.” He shakes his head again and sighs mournfully. “I missthatBeck.”

I grimace for several reasons, one of which is that the thought of doing exactly that makes my dick so hard that I almost pass out.

I tighten my fists at my sides. Dix is right: I’m acting like a coward. I’ve spent days, weeks, months telling myself that Sloan is another nobody. A nuisance. That I’ll be happy when she’s gone.

But it’s becoming painfully obvious that that’s a lie.

I don’t want Sloan Reeves gone. I don’t want her farther away from me at all. I want her closer. I want her in my bed. I want my name on her lips, and I want to see how that pretty face twists up when she comes again, because I haven’t been able to stop thinking about it since it happened.

I turn in place. “Get dressed, boys. We’re going out.”

49

BECK

Being a celebrity comes in handy sometimes.

The promoter at the door of Ataria, the hottest nightclub in the city, is practically drooling over themselves at the sight of three Seattle Wave players strutting through his door. The patrons waiting in line to get in also go apeshit. We’re ushered into the heart of the club with screaming puck bunnies on all sides.

But I only have eyes for one person.

And she’s nowhere to be found.

The beat blasting through the speakers is throbbing, pulsing, a migraine in musical form. I tear through the bar area—no sight of her.

I scan the queues for the bathrooms—nothing.

Then I glance over the dance floor—and I find exactly what I came for.

She’s dancing near some tool whose grabby hands are pawing all over her. She moves away; he gets closer. She pushes him off; he grabs again.

That’s my cue.

I storm through. The crowd parts for me like the Red Sea. Most of them, at least. Those that are too slow or too stupid to get out of my way receive a brutal shoulder check that sends them careening out of my path.

The music fades away—to me, at least. The lights dim and focus. My entire attention, every single fiber of my being, is focused on one thing: a man’s hand on my woman’s hip.

“I’m pretty fucking sure she told you no.”

My voice slices through the chaos of the club. The man looks up in surprise. “Who the hell are?—”

WHAM.My fist makes contact with his nose. Shit breaks. Blood spurts.

And goddamn, it feels good.

He slithers to the ground, out cold. Then I turn and focus on Sloan, who’s looking up at me like I’m the Second Coming.

“Who—How—Why?—”

“You really are eloquent,” I say with a smirk. “Got the gift of gab.”

She shakes her head to clear the cobwebs, glances down at the miserable bastard puddled at our feet, then back up to me. “What are you doing here, Beck?”

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