“SO, we all agree that was hot as fuck, right?”
“Ben,” I chastise with a hiss, elbowing my way too ecstatic friend. Although, I can’t find it in me to argue.
That was, in fact, hot as fuck.
All night, I’ve been silently remarking on how the man who’s not quite mine is so damn hot. And maybe not-so-silently fawning too—I blame that on the open bar—but half of the people here have their jaws on the ground, tongues lolling, so it’s not suspicious. I think it would be more suspicious if that tanned, tattooed, glistening body and the menacing, predatory darkness swirling in golden eyes and the cocky, earned strut weren’t working for me.
But now is not the time to acknowledge all of that. Now is the time to be pissed because, in all his God-like glory, Nick is ignoring me. He’s been ignoring me since he stormed off after that brawl broke out. I have no idea what happened but I gathered pretty quickly that it wasn’t the norm—while the crowd was delighted by the bloody display, the referee and the security guards, and a handful of suit-clad men were none too pleased. They banished him to the locker room, and I tried to talk to him once our friends dispersed under the command of the big, scary guy stationed outside the door, but despite my efforts, I got shooed away too. Kate slipped in there before The freaking Mountain arrived but whatever they talked about, she’s remaining tight-lipped, only deigning to confirm he’s okay.
So, I’ve resorted to being irritated instead of worried. I let Ben drag me back to the bar and pump me full of sugary, deceivingly easy-to-drink cocktails and talk my ear off about how hot all these brawny, fighting men are because then, it’s harder to fixate on the exasperated disappointment that contorted Nick’s face before he stormed away.
“Come on,” Ben whines beside me, almost falling off his stool as he slumps across the bar. “Look me in the eyes and tell me your panties weren’t even a little bit wet.”
I grimace. “Please don’t talk about my panties.”
“Seconded,” Cass chimes in with an exaggerated gag, knocking back the rest of his Aperol Spritz in what I know is an effort to swamp cloying disgust.
The three of us are the last of our group lingering. The couples ditched before the penultimate fight of the night and I’m starting to think I should’ve gone too. Clearly, if the string of texts left unanswered has anything to say about it, Nick doesn’t want to see me. Which is perfect; I don’t want to see him either. Nope. I’m fine and dandy with my good friend, the mojito, keeping me company.
Or at least, I’m fine until Cass’ phone vibrates and he loudly announces with no short amount of excitement that Nick is on his way. Then, I revert to cowardice; chugging my drink, I high-tail it away so fast, arguments are impossible and my shouted explanation that I’m getting an Uber home is probably lost in the wind.
Chilly air caresses my bare skin—I forewent a jacket in the name of fashion knowing damn well I’d pay the price—and coaxes out a shiver as I clumsily stumble into the night. Eerie silence greets me, a stark contrast to the constant buzz indoors, but I convince myself it’s a welcome change, well-needed considering my brain is loud enough.
Wrapping an arm around my middle like that’ll ward off the cold, I request a ride as fast as humanly possible and forward all the driver’s information to the girls; getting murdered and dumped in a ditch somewhere would be my luck. Before a barrage of texts berating me for going home alone can come through, I switch my phone to silent.
“Five minutes,” I mutter to myself, hopping from one foot to the other in an attempt to generate some heat. “All that stands between you and your bed.”
“Talking to yourself, babe?”
I startle so badly I almost trip over myself. Skin flushing for reasons other than impending frostbite, I twist in the direction of the unfamiliar voice. I recoil on instinct when I recognize the guy leaning against the wall a few feet away, sucking on a cigarette and seemingly immune to the cold in the same flimsy shorts he wore in the ring earlier and a thin sweatshirt. I can’t for the life of me remember Nick’s opponent’s name but I definitely remember the sneer he wore as he taunted Nick with words I couldn’t hear, every inch of his face lined with cruelty. He sneers now too, and I back up a couple of steps. “Just waiting for someone.”
This time when I shiver, it has nothing to do with the temperature and everything to do with his low snicker. “Your boyfriend on his way?” Straightening, he flicks the cigarette away. “Hope so. I could go for a second round.”
A scoff leaves me before I can think better of it, a retort close to follow because come on, the guy barely survived the first round. “Doesn’t look like it.”
The guy groans in a way that makes my skin crawl. “Feisty little thing, hm? I like it.”
A vehement, wholehearted ‘ewwww’ pings around my brain.
Fucking. Men.
I’m debating whether I should tuck tail and run or give the creep a piece of my mind—the rum coursing through my bloodstream is advocating for the latter—when a different, and honestly preferable, option presents itself.
“Your memory can’t be that fucking short, Reynolds,” a voice drawls as a hard body materializes at my back. A warm, possessive hand lands on my hip. “Leave her alone.”
I might be drunk and annoyed but it’s nowhere near enough to pretend I’m not relieved by Nick’s presence, and it’s certainly not enough to prevent me from tucking myself against his chest like a true damsel in distress, one hand curving behind me to clutch blindly at a thick thigh.
Hostile energy rolling off the two of them and threatening to suffocate me, I brace myself for a fight. I figure the guy—Brett—is going to get the round two he clearly wants, so I’m readying to chuck myself aside and out of harm’s way
My preparation is in vain.
One second, Brett’s eyeing me up like a predator. The next, he’s gone. More accurately, I’m gone; in the blink of an eye, I’m whisked away by frantic hands, steered around the corner, and ushered toward the parking lot situated at the opposite end of the building at a speed nothing short of urgent. I’d go so far as to say I’m one wrong move away from being chucked over Nick’s shoulder like a sack of potatoes.
“What’re you doing?” I inject as much indignance as possible into my question but the twang of relief is undeniable.
Nick glances back the way we came and I use his inattention to shrug his hand off. “Don’t want that guy anywhere near you.”
I resist the urge to growl like a feral dog. “Nope.” Skidding to a stop, I cross my arms over my chest and adopt as nasty a glare as I can conjure up. “You don’t get to do that. You can’t pretend I don’t exist and then swoop in acting all jealous.”
“That’s not-” Nick cuts himself off with a shake of his head and a frustrated sigh. “What the hell are you doing out here alone, Amelia?”
Keeping up the rabid animal routine, I bare my teeth, hackles raised. “Waiting for my ride.”
“I’m your ride.”
“Hard pass.” My scoff is a little meaner than intended. “I called an Uber.”
“Amelia-” Nick reaches for me again but now that danger is no longer imminent, I bat him away.
“Touching privileges are for people who don’t ignore me.”
Cursing roughly, Nick shoves his hands into his pockets—he changed into gray sweats at some point, which is a really sneaky move on his part—and nods toward his truck parked nearby, a hint of desperation about him. “Can we talk inside, please? You’re shaking.”
My barked ‘no’ is betrayed by a downright violent shiver. “I told you, I’m waiting for my ride.”
“Amelia,” Nick utters my name in that low, lilted way that has a particularly strong effect on me, “you are not getting in a random car alone and drunk off your ass. We can talk, or we can not. Either way, I’m driving you home.”
It’s not fair, how with a handful of concerned words, he can make me forget that I’m mad at him. It’s like he cast a freaking spell, hypnotized me somehow, because next thing I know, I’m climbing into the passenger seat of his truck, letting him strap me in, and accepting the sweatshirt he drapes over my bare shoulders and the kiss he drops on my forehead with absolutely zero complaints.
Pathetic little woman.
We don’t talk on the way to my place. Despite his earlier wishes, Nick doesn’t say a word to me, not even when we pull outside a McDonald’s—another dirty tactic. The silence is broken when he orders my regular meal, and then by the sounds of me munching on a veggie wrap and slurping a soda.
I don’t know if it’s a strategy, the combination of softening me up with greasy food and breaking me down with the sheer anticipation of an impending conversation, but even if it isn’t, it kind of works.
By the time he parks outside my apartment building and shifts to face me, I’m a squirming ball of suspense. “I’m sorry,” he starts softly, and I quietly curse myself for melting a bit at just that, for thinking ‘yup, that’s enough, nice effort, buddy.’
Pathetic, weak woman with floor-level standards.
Nick continues, “I didn’t mean to ignore you. I was angry and upset and I didn’t wanna accidentally take it out on you.”
“Okay.” I gnaw on my bottom lip, mulling over my words lest a soppy ‘I forgive you’ comes flying out prematurely. “Angry and upset about what?”
Nick tenses, averting his gaze to a nameless spot on the windshield as he kisses his teeth loudly. “Brett,” of course, “said some nasty shit about you.”
“About me?” I blink at him blankly. “Why about me?”
“He knew it would rile me up.”
“How?”
His gaze slides to mine. “I didn’t tell him if that’s what you’re getting at.”
“It’s not.” I frown at the audible bitterness in his tone. “Why do you sound like you’re mad at me?”
A bear paw of a hand settles over mine where they’re clasped in my lap. “I’m not. I’m frustrated.”
I let him disentangle my hands, let him entwine one with his instead. “About?”
“I’m not tryna push you, okay? I just wanna be honest,” he says, and God, if he’s wanting to incite a heart attack, that’s a nice, ominous way to go about it. “What Brett said really fucking wound me up. I needed to calm down and…” He trails off, his throat bobbing in a hard swallow, his next words like gravel. “I wanted you.”
Like a day breaking, it dawns on me. “And I…” I don’t know what I did, really. Freaked out, maybe. Stepped away the moment his attention flicked to me because I didn’t trust myself not to fling myself in his arms and fuss over him like the girlfriend that I’m not, revealing our arrangement at the first hurdle.
I grasp for the best way to finish my sentence without embarrassing myself but it turns out I don’t need to; Nick needs no further explanation. He squeezes my hand, a sad smile gracing his handsome face. “It’s not fair but that pissed me off more so I acted like a dick. I’m sorry, Amelia.”
“I’m sorry too.” It causes a literal pang of pain in my gut, knowing I had a hand in making him feel worse, accidental as it was. “Do you…” I swallow hard, knowing the question on my tongue is a dangerous one but asking it anyway. “Do you want to tell people?”
“The secrecy was your idea,” is his irritatingly vague response.
“I just think it would do more harm than good.” Harm to other people, harm to me. Because what this is, it isn’t going anywhere. We both know it and getting attached—more attached than I already am—would be foolish. Telling people about an arrangement that has an unknown expiration date? That’s a recipe for another embarrassing heartbreak, and I’ve had enough of them. Sooner or later, Nick will get bored, I’ll find my way into another doomed relationship, and balance will be restored. It’s inevitable and pretending otherwise is only going to make the fallout worse.
For what feels like forever, Nick stares at me silently. I stare back, and it feels like I’m looking right at the end of this short-lived, wonderful thing, and I’m thinking ‘hey, it was fun while it lasted,’ and I’m wondering why the concept of the finish line hurts quite a bite.
When he sighs, I prepare for him to put me out of misery—or maybe drop me right in it—but a smile throws me off-kilter. “You’re right,” he surprises me by saying, bringing my hand up to his lips and kissing my knuckles. “Forget I said anything.”
I slump in relief, and I can’t tell whether it’s his dismissal of the subject, or whether it’s because he hasn’t dismissed me.
