If I Could Do It Again
Page 22
“What’s your name?” I ask. “And don’t give me any of that I don’t know bullshit.”
She shakes her head again; a few blonde curls that have worked their way loose from the knot of hair piled on her head bounce against her shoulders. Her eyes flick to Wes, and then back to me. “I want to know who he is first.”
A pang of irritation hits me at her question. I try to push it back, but it seeps into my voice anyway. “Yeah?” I say, sitting up straight. “And why the fuck would you want to know that if you’re supposed to be here to meet me?”
She looks at me as though she wants to both devour and strangle me. I chuckle softly. She’s fucking adorable.
“Because,” she says, the word shaking slightly on her lips. She grimaces, no doubt she heard it, too, and clears her throat. “I do.”
Wes takes a sip of his beer, considering her for a moment, and then lifts a shoulder in a half shrug. “I’m Wesley Gates.”
“Oh, hi,” she says, sounding startled. She stares at him, and this sweet, timid smile graces her plump lips. “It’s really nice to meet you, Wesley.”
Laughing, Wes folds his arms over his chest. “I’m guessing you’ve heard my name before.”
She flushes an adorable shade of peach and nods. “Yes, well, I know you work with Jason.”
Annoyance hits me fast and hard. Goddamnit she’s flirting. She’s fucking flirting with Wes. Is that her angle? Figure out my name as some sort of an icebreaker, an opening so she could meet him?
“You seem pretty confident that I’m Jason,” I say, coolly, barely hiding my annoyance.
She makes a face at me, aggravation with a mix of fury. “I know who you are.” It comes out like a growl, throaty and raspy.
“What’s your name?” I ask again.
She glares at me. “You know who I am. I wouldn’t be here if you didn’t.”
I grit my teeth, stopping a frustrated groan from passing my lips. I don’t even know what to say to that. She may have a tight little body, but goddamn, this innocent, timid game she’s playing … Not worth the headache.
Sighing, I shake my head. “Don’t know what game you’re trying to play here, babe,” I say. “But you can take it somewhere else. I’m not interested.”
The girl is silent for a moment, gawking, before she finds her voice and whispers, “Asshole.” As soon as the word slips out, the color drains from her high cheekbones and her pretty eyes widen. Obviously, she hadn’t meant to say it out loud and she looks at me, horrified. “This was a bad idea,” she says, taking a step back, and then another. “I think I’m just going to go now.”
“Yeah,” I say right away. “You should probably go on and do that.”
She freezes, stalling out on her retreat, and looks at me with big, hurt-filled eyes, before her expression morphs into something blank and cold and distant.
Suddenly, there’s no indication of what she’s thinking or feeling, and when I search her face closely, I realize that those expressive eyes of hers are completely free of everything. It’s as though she just simply stopped feeling—anything.
My chest tightens, and I don’t know why, but that look … it guts me.
In that second, I can’t imagine anything that could be worse than seeing that look.
Realization slams into me like a runaway freight train. She isn’t some young girl looking for a fun night. She isn’t playing a game. She expects me to know who she is.
I’m here to meet you.
Goddamnit! Someone sent her to me.
I stand up quickly, my chair teetering, before clapping back in place against the floor. I take a step toward her, and she takes another back. “Someone referred you, yeah?”
She flinches, as though she felt my question physically, but doesn’t say a word. She inches back another step.
And another.
And another.
I follow; my mind works fast, trying to think of something, anything, to say that will stop her from leaving. “You want to go somewhere?” I ask. “We can talk for a bit.”
“No,” she says, her voice cold and harsh. She raises her hands, indicating for me not to come any closer. “I’m just going to … It was good to meet you both.” And then she turns, sets her glass down on the nearest table, and she runs.