Chapter Eleven – Fawn #2
Seriously, I’m going to need jaw surgery with how much it’s dropped today.
Delilah roams over, swaying her hips, a rag still slung over her shoulder. I wonder if she’s ready to teach him another lesson, but nope, instead, they start chatting.
She leans on the bar, flipping her bleach-blonde hair, all flirtatious. I glance over at Torin and Dylan to see if they’re as shocked. Both of them stare at the bar like they’ve just witnessed a dragon trot through the door and order a beer.
“Yo! You owe me ten bucks,” Dylan states with that cocky smirk of his.
“Uh! Excuse me. No numbers have been exchanged—”
“Yet,” Torin interrupts, low, under his breath.
My head spins so fast in his direction, my eyes rattle. The word itself is simple, but his voice is gravelly, the type that slips beneath my skin like warm whiskey.
Fuck!
A slow burn climbs from my core, so I sip on my soda in an attempt to mask the reality that my brain short-circuited on one word.
But whoa, he actually speaks. And of course, he picks the perfect moment.
Torin’s eyes drop to the table as he pinches the bridge of his nose like he regrets saying anything. He seems . . . annoyed. But not with me. It’s directed at himself.
Before I can wrap my head around it, he’s up and digging for change in his jeans pocket. In no time, he’s marching off toward the row of those flashing machines in the corner, looking like he’s trying to make a broody getaway.
“Damn, I don’t know what blows my mind more,” I say softly, still observing Torin. “Delilah not telling Cal where to stick it, or Torin actually speaking.”
Dylan lets out an amused breath. “He just thinks a lot, that’s all. I wouldn’t read too much into it. I mean—” He stops speaking for a second and rubs his forehead with his thumb. “It’s not that deep.”
Well, that makes me want to dig deep now. I feel there’s some massive history within Torin waiting to be uncovered.
Dylan scooches over in the booth, giving me a little more room—sort of like he’s being polite.
“So,” he says, all chill but interested, “when did you move to Ivywood?”
My brow knits together as I slowly hook a stray lock behind my ear. “Wait a minute. How do you know I’m not a local?”
He smiles slowly, self-satisfactorily. “Small town. You never went to any school I went to.” His eyes drop to my mouth. “Believe me, I would’ve noticed someone like you.”
“Someone like me?”
“Yeah. A good-looking, intelligent chick.”
A strand of his wavy hair falls on his forehead, and I resist the urge to move it.
Warmth pools in my cheeks; I have to force my gaze away from the traps of his eyes. If I don’t, I know it’s game over with professionalism.
“Good-looking,” I repeat in a flirty tone, but I stop myself. “Hang on!” My head shakes vigorously. “Aren’t I meant to be asking questions?”
He lets out a soft laugh, as if he realizes what he’s doing to me. “Go on, fire away. Ask me your questions now. Trust me, you won’t be wanting sloppy drunk responses later.”
Reaching for my phone, I force a bright expression on my face and then open the Notes app. There is no way in the world I’m breaking out my journal in the middle of a bar like a starry-eyed reporter.
“Alright,” I start, “so, first question, super easy. When did you start skating and why?”
He settles, one arm draped over top of the booth, and gives a half-scoff, half-laugh. “I was seven or something. My mom put me in lessons as a focus booster—” He pauses, taking a swig of his beer, and lifts his shoulders. “I have ADHD. She figured it would work.”
And it all comes together. The perpetual energy. The self-assured smirk that feeds off admiration. The fact that he appears to vibrate despite being rooted in place. Of course he has ADHD. It makes sense. He’s no longer Mr. Loves Himself; he’s Mr. Loves the Rush.
“That makes perfect sense.” The words leave my mouth before I can think.
Oh man. Word vomit.
Dylan’s eyebrows rise. He looks genuinely puzzled; it makes my stomach turn.
Before I get the chance to try to explain, my phone pings on the table. I pick it up quickly, hoping he doesn’t see my hands practically shaking.
It’s a message from Delilah.
Delilah: Come to the bar!
I glance over to Delilah, her eyes wide, as if she’s got some crazy gossip to drop. The barstool, however, is empty. Oh man. Has she already scared Cal away?
“I’m . . . I’m just gonna . . .” I gesture kind of ridiculously in her general area, “check on Delilah.”
Before Dylan is able to say a word, I leap out of the booth so fast, I almost drop my Dr Pepper in his lap.
Slick, as always.
“Fuck, Fawn. He’s precious,” coos Delilah the moment I reach the bar, her eyes lighting up.
“Precious?” I stretch out the word, sounding skeptical. I’ve never heard her speak about a guy like this. “So where is he, then?”
She points her head in the direction of the back corridor. “Bathroom. I don’t understand how you didn’t want him. He is hilarious in the best way possible, absolutely bold, and so good-looking.”
I vigorously nod, but my head’s in la-la land — thinking of Dylan’s smirk, the way he complimented me.
Ugh, get your act together, Fawn.
“So how’s it going over there then?” Delilah asks, snapping me out of my trance.
“Hmm?” My hum is high but guilt-ridden.
She smirks. “Seems like you were getting . . . close.”
“No way. I was just asking questions. For the book.” I wave my phone as I’m trying to prove my point.
Delilah can’t tether the grin tugging at the corners of her mouth. “Mhm. Yeah, yeah. Ultra professional. Nothing screams integrity like biting your lip when a hockey player is checking you out.”
I stare. “Stop talking.”
When the last words leave my mouth, the bar’s chatter stops. I mean pin-drop silent. The only audible sound is the country tune wailing from the jukebox.
The creak of the entrance catches my attention; there stands a group of men. They have big shoulders, bruised skin, and confident smirks. The bar seems to shrink.
Fuck, it’s the Rangers.
Their ominous eyes gloss over the bar, then to me. It’s that look — the one that says they’d devour me whole, and not in a good way.
“Oh look, fresh meat,” a sinister voice comes from one of the Rangers.
Before I even have the chance to blink, Dylan’s out of the booth and planted beside me.
And Torin? He seems to appear out of nowhere, standing in front of me so quickly, his back presses against the front of my body.
His arm pushes against me — warm and unyielding.
Ultra-protective. I inhale sharply, but I don’t get time to think twice about it.
Delilah’s voice breaks the standoff, all crisp but laced with that don’t-fuck-with-me attitude she has perfectly mastered. “Problem, guys?”
Dylan remains laid-back, his voice unshakable. “I don’t know. Is there?” He aims the question at the Rangers.
The wood floor creaks, the atmosphere intense.
One of the Rangers throws up his hands in submission. “Chill. We just wanted a quiet drink.”
Oh, totally.
Like rival hockey players would just stroll into a bar packed with Wolves and think they can chill with their beers. So realistic, right? Considering both teams have bruised faces, I hardly believe this is going to go down well.
The air’s heavy — kind of like in those classic Westerns, where everyone’s just hanging around to see who’s going to make the first move. The Wolves are on one side of the bar, and the Rangers are across from them. I almost picture a tumbleweed rolling by the jukebox.
And then, at the absolute right moment, Cal walks in, sporting this just-as-innocent-as-anything smile. “Whoa, what did I just walk into?”
Wrong place, wrong time, but kind of funny.
Dylan clears his throat, eyeing the Rangers. “Hey, it’s cool. We were all heading to another bar anyway.” He actually sounds relatively relaxed and diplomatic, not remotely like he was ready to trade punches.
But his jaw? Tight as hell.
I glance at Torin’s hand — it’s bunched in a fist, resting against his leg, the veins bulging. Then, in an instant, I watch the tension release.
“Don’t wanna fucking dislocate my thumb . . . again,” Torin mumbles under his breath, not realizing I can hear him.
Shit.
He was fully prepared to throw hands if he had to. The idea does something to me in ways I’m not particularly wanting to admit.
“Hey, you hitting the next bar with us?” Dylan asks, sounding laid-back, but his eyes are still quite fierce.
Honest answer? A part of me wants to stay here, but I’ve only extracted one question from him so far, and is it bad I want to find out more about them? Plus, this book is not going to assemble itself.
Fuck it.
I nod and grab my bag from the booth.
“You coming, Cal?” I say as I walk past him, but he leans back on a barstool as if nothing ever occurred.
He twirls his head toward Delilah and then at us. “Uhh . . . nah. I think I’ll stay here, make sure Delilah’s good.”
Those words make Delilah’s face light up — it’s like there’s a neon sign shining over top of her. She attempts to keep her cool, but boy, that smile. She is totally caught.
It’s nice seeing her light up over a guy. Usually, she picks one for the night, fucks them, and never looks back. But this? This feels different.
Dylan nods and doesn’t say anything more, instead walking toward the door, the other guys trailing behind him like little ducklings.
My eyes lock on Delilah as I follow. She mouths, You gonna be okay?
With the corniest thumbs-up, I beam at her. Because, yeah. Nothing says absolutely fine like following a group of hockey players out into the evening.