Chapter Thirteen – Fawn
Dylan just called me princess again, and yeah, I got butterflies — the kind I know I shouldn’t want.
Oh God, it’s only a nickname. A stupid nickname I shouldn’t be analyzing, yet I am. There’s something about the way he says it that’s teasing but also sweet at the same time. I thought Dylan was just some arrogant show-off, but I was wrong. There’s way more to him.
When he started stuttering, I will admit, it was kind of cute. But when I asked about his parents, something in his forest green eyes looked . . . sad. It was like I’d flipped the wrong switch, touched a nerve.
Interesting.
I need to dig. I know it’s bad, but I need to decipher the meaning behind that sadness. For the book. Wait, I’m sounding like a reporter only cares to get the story. The thing is, I do care. I shouldn’t; I barely know him, but I want to know why Torin hardly speaks. Why, when he does, he’s blunt.
Out of nowhere, Torin pulls out a pack of smokes from his flannel jacket. I don’t blame him for wanting to step outside for a cigarette. It’s awkward, and the humid air is thick. I want to break the ice, ask if the cut on his head hurts, maybe crack a joke, but what’s the point?
Earlier, when Dylan was at the bar, Torin cleared his throat, as if he was going to say something, but then he clammed up. It is like watching a brewing storm that never actually hits.
I huff, fully expecting Torin to get up and head outside for a smoke or something, but he doesn’t.
Instead, he stays put on his stool, silent, his eyes fixed on the restroom door, like he’s waiting for Dylan before he’ll so much as think about letting me fend for myself.
Maybe I’m putting too much thought into it.
Still — while everyone else around us is enjoying their evening he remains still, like he’s on guard.
I can’t help but think back to the other bar, how both men rushed to my side the minute that Ranger said something.
It seemed like it was second nature to Torin and Dylan.
Note to self: I need to ask Dylan what the hell that was about.
To make it less awkward between me and Torin, I glance around the bar, soaking in the girls dressed like they belong in a pop video.
Then, well, there’s me, in a loose-fitting midi dress with a brown belt to help cover my stomach.
The ice queen herself is staked out by the bar, her fingers wrapped around a glass like she’s trying to snap the stem.
Her eyes are locked on me. Perhaps it’s because I came in with Dylan.
Harper probably still wants him. There’s a small, petty, wicked side of me that relishes it.
When Dylan tried to explain his situation with her earlier, I told him he didn’t need to explain, but the truth is, I was kind of . . . jealous.
What the hell am I thinking? I shake my head and take a sip of my drink. I’m not jealous, just . . . observationally annoyed.
That’s all.
I will definitely need another drink after that.
Or maybe it’s the drink doing the thinking.
I shift my weight in my seat, trying to distract myself from the figure skater, but it seems the universe has it in for me.
The air in the bar feels even thicker now.
Across the room, a hand tightens around a beer bottle.
Just above the wrist, a green four-leaf clover.
Against my will my eyes shift up. The bar narrows down.
Fuck. It’s Jason.
My tongue sticks to the roof of my mouth as a cold tremor cascades from my head to my toes.
He sees me and naturally that evil smirk on his face tells me exactly what I need to know.
He’s definitely not walking over for a friendly greeting.
A text now and then is bad enough, but seeing him in person? I’m going to have a panic attack.
The stool legs shriek against the floorboards as I lunge up. I need air, space, something that’s not his. But then I sense gentle pressure on my wrist, anchoring, not imprisoning.
“Fawn,” a calm voice says, but it’s not Jason — it’s Torin.
My vision blurs as I meet Torin’s gaze. His lips press into a hard line, but the muscle in his cheek twitches. His eyes dart past my shoulder at Jason then snap back to my face.
“Hey,” he whispers, as if we’ve known each other for years, not minutes.
Considering he’s been blunt all night, his demeanor has totally shifted.
The sounds from the bar melt away, blending into the background noise of music and laughter.
It’s only the two of us, close together, his words low enough for only me to hear.
“You’re okay,” he states, like a promise.
And somehow, I believe him.
“Wrap your arms around me,” Torin whispers firmly.
His dark gaze anchors me, as if he’s memorizing every freckle. My brows draw together. I blink. “What?”
“Trust me, Fawn. Just do it. Wrap your arms around me.”
Something in his voice causes me to obey without hesitation. My arms wrap around his neck, and I’m suddenly pressed against him. I’m close enough to feel the solid heat of his body through his shirt as the smell of clean soap and smoke envelops me.
“This will send him a fucking message.” Torin’s voice turns serious.
The way he says it doesn’t sound playful. No, it sounds defensive. Strong. Like he’s got experience with it. The bar seems to blur as his breath brushes my collarbone. My fingers curl into my palms, and I have to remind myself to breathe. The space around us shifts, denser, electric.
“But if he doesn’t get the message, this will make him—” His words fade away as he closes the last inch separating us.
His strong arms envelop my waist. My body tenses for a brief second, every instinct, every rule shouting outrage.
But then, his mouth finds the sensitive part of my neck, just beneath my ear, and my mind shatters.
He doesn’t kiss, not at first. He pecks, light brushes of his mouth that send electric jolts straight down my spine.
A hum escapes from my throat, filling the silence between us.
Against my neck, his mouth softens into a lingering curve.
I shouldn’t be enjoying this.
Then, inch by inch, his lips trace a path along my jawline.
My head arches back, offering him a chance to get closer, my anxiety fading away.
Torin’s calloused palm rises from my waist, tracing a heated path up to my spine.
Then, his fingers find their way into my hair at the base of my skull.
A warmth gathers deep in my core. Tighter, my hands grip around his neck, pulling him closer.
Finally, I let my lips meet the base of his neck, and I kiss him back — soft, uncertain, like I’m testing my own boundary. His breath stutters. I stop knowing where I am. There is only him, and the space between.
I want to move my lips to his, but before I do, I can see Jason’s reflection in the mirror behind Torin.
He’s still, jaw tightened, eyes narrowing.
He mouths something, but I can’t make it out — probably calling me a slut.
I’m glad he doesn’t come closer. This intimate moment is enough to stop him.
No doubt I’ll get a text from him later.
But knowing Jason isn’t bothering me in this moment, I close my eyes and fully surrender to Torin.
His lips don’t inch any closer to mine. Instead, he starts kissing more passionately along my jawline.
His hand remains knotted in my hair, holding me in place, while each heartbeat crashes into the next, too fast and loud.
Then, without realizing it, I’m leaning into him more, my lips moving up his neck.
Suddenly, Torin breaks the silence. “You know he walked away a couple minutes ago, right?” His tone is back to being blunt, but it’s laced with an underlying humor. “Bet you’re so turned on.”
My lips break from him and my eyes snap open. I shove back from him, the heat already crawling up my neck, betraying me. “You’re such a jackass. I’m not turned on at all.”
His soft face hardens into something wicked, though it’s not malicious; it’s like he knows exactly what he did to me.
The dryness in my throat needs moisture, so I reach for my drink and take a massive gulp.
I’m trying to convince myself I’m not flustered and wanting to break my one-year rule.
But my hands betray me and start shaking.
I can still feel his touch, even when he releases me.
My hands find the stool before the rest of me commits to anything.
I set it upright, taking a seat, and reach for the drinks menu.
It’s something to look at, something to do.
“Uhh . . . thanks for that,” I state awkwardly.
“You’re good,” Torin responds, too calmly. His eyes fixed on anything but me. “From your ex’s reaction, he seems like a jerk.”
It wasn’t a question, instead more of a statement.
“You have no idea.” I let out a short, breathy laugh and roll my eyes.
For a moment, I almost want to start ranting — about the gaslighting, the deceit, the way Jason would punish me in so many ways — but Torin catches my gaze, his face relaxed.
I snap back to reality, realizing he’s not invading my personal business.
He’s making conversation, or at least pretending to.
Maybe he’s trying to ease the awkwardness, since he was blunt all night and pretty much made out with my neck.
I take another gulp of my drink, the carbonation irritating my esophagus.
Real smooth.
Seriously, Torin? The guy is a grumpy ass, and I let him make out with my neck. Between him and Dylan, what was I thinking? I mean . . . I wasn’t thinking about them like that.
Dammit!
I’m on my feet before I’ve decided to move. “Uhh, I’m gonna—” I manage to mumble, gesturing vaguely with my thumb toward the general direction of the bathroom. Nerves and embarrassment twist together inside me.
Even though the words are barely audible, Torin understands and nods once. He taps a cigarette out of his pack but doesn’t light it, just twiddles it between his fingers.