I do my thing as she snaps not one, not two, but five fucking pictures, and then she skips away like a giddy kid who just met Mickey Mouse at Disneyland.
My body sinks into the worn sofa, deeper, harder, heavier, as the alcohol hits my blood. I’m warm and numb and completely convinced I can suffer through the rest of his evening … until I spot a guy and a sandy-haired girl on the other side of the room essentially fucking with their clothes on in a leather wingback chair.
For five solid seconds, I see Irie. I see a horny bastard with his hands on her ass. I see a jackass tasting the lips that should only belong to me. And I see her curved hips grinding against a dude that will never be able to satisfy her the way I could.
Then I see black.
With my jaw clenched, I rise from my spot and storm across the room.
They’re oblivious to me …
… until I grab his arm and all but yank him out of the chair.
“The fuck is your problem, man?” he asks, wild-eyed.
Irie scrambles off his lap—and it’s then that I realize it isn’t Irie.
It isn’t Irie at all.
Just some girl with the same hair.
She covers her swollen lips with her hand and cowers in the corner as her boyfriend gives me a non-verbal what-for. His hands are lifted and he’s giving me his best attempt at a dirty look, but his eyes are the color of terror.
“Get a fucking room,” I say before storming off.
I’m losing it.
I’ve got to get out of here.
“Dude, what was that about?” Vin asks, chuckling. “You okay, man?”
No. I’m not okay.
“Yeah. Just going to grab some air for a sec.” I point to the front door. If they’re lucky, I’ll come back. I have half a mind to call it an early night before I make a jackass out of myself again—not that I honestly give a fuck what people think about me at the end of the day. But those two were having themselves a time and the last thing they needed was some drunk bastard interrupting them.
I head out the front door and tug it closed, stepping outside to let the brisk air slap some sense into me. I exhale a clouded breath and head to the porch swing to my left—only it’s occupied.
“Irie,” I say when I see the unmistakable outline of her face in the dim night. She’s illuminated by street lights and the glow of the garage lights, but it’s her.
This time I’m fucking certain.
“How long have you been out here?” I ask. It feels like forever ago we were sitting out back, having a talk before going our separate ways, but for all I know that was ten minutes ago. My concept of time always gets glitchy when I’ve been drinking.
“Not long,” she says, nodding toward the street. “Just waiting for the bus.”
“You’re leaving?”
“Yep.”
I check the time on my phone. “It’s only ten.”
“And your point?” She half laughs through her nose before scooting over and making room for me on the porch. “Why aren’t you inside? I saw they were passing out tequila shots a little bit ago.”
How I missed her walking past the main room, I’m not sure.
“Looked like you were having a good time,” she says. “Taking selfies and whatnot …”
I roll my eyes as I take the spot beside her. The chair swings back with my weight and I lean my arm over her lap, grabbing the arm rest to brace myself while also making sure she doesn’t topple out. Not that she would. She isn’t shitfaced like me.
“What are you going to do the rest of the night?” I ask.
“Going to bed,” she says. “Nothing that would excite you.”
“Now that’s where you’re wrong.”
“Going to bed excites you?”
“You plus a bed excites me,” I say, accidentally slurring.
Irie tilts her head. “If you’re trying to be smooth, I have to be honest, Talon, it’s not going well for you.”
I drag in a long, icy breath and let it go before smirking. “Appreciate the honesty. Liquid confidence is a hell of a thing.”
“How much have you had to drink tonight? Besides the tequila shot, I mean. You weren’t this drunk twenty minutes ago when we were out back.”
It’s only been twenty minutes?
I was way off.
“A couple of beers,” I say. The can of Miller Lite in my hand is still full, verging on room temperature now. I might as well dump it. The only thing worse than warm alcohol is … being rejected by Irie Davenport. “What is it about me that repulses you?”
Irie’s gaze snaps to mine and she begins to cough, choking on her spit. “What? I never said I was repulsed by you.”
“What is it about me that sends you running?”
“Everything,” she answers without hesitation. “What is it about me that makes you so relentless?”