2. Ellis
TWO
ELLIS
“She yours?” Silas asks as I try—and fail—not to watch Scarlet as she stomps her way across the bar.
“Hell no,” I spit the words, even as my eyes eat up all the tanned skin she has on display in her short-shorts and tank top. It’s unreal how someone so unbearable can be so damn fine.
He hums under his breath, and I cut my eyes his way, only to find him trying to hide his grin behind his beer bottle.
“What?” It’s one word—one fucking syllable, growled out like a dog defending his bone, and I immediately wish I could take it back. Because I already know how I sound…
Defensive. And I hate it, but that’s Scarlet’s effect on damn near everyone. Her ability to get under my skin is unparalleled. She knows my every button and is an expert at pushing them.
From the literal night we met, here in this very spot, she’s done her best to drive me up the damn wall. She’s wild, reckless, a little rude, and a whole lot tempting. But she made it clear she wasn’t into me when she cozied up with my best friend the morning after we met.
And it’s fine. Totally fine. It’s not like I was into her either.
Fuck that.
“Just saying.” He crosses his arms over his chest. “You're awfully possessive over a woman who’s not yours. You want her to be?”
“Possessive?” My eyes nearly bug out of my skull as I try to make sense of what he’s saying. Because there’s no universe in existence where I’m possessive over Scarlet Armstrong. She’s nothing more than the devil in a dress. “You’ve got it twisted.”
“Nah, man, I don’t think I do. Only thing twisted is your damn panties. You watch her like a predator tracking its prey… like if you look away, even for a second, she might disappear.”
He’s wrong. Beyond wrong. It’s laughable how wrong he is. The only thing I want from Scarlet is for her to go away. I damn sure don’t want her to be mine. She’s barely tolerable on a good day, and good days with her are few and far between.
If I could find a way to convince Nora—my best friend Atlas’s better half—to ditch her, I’d do it, in a heartbeat. But Nora’s got a soft spot for the she-devil and is intent on forcing us to all get along, like one big, happy family.
Fat chance of that happening.
I’m so caught up in my own head, in refuting Silas’s claims, that I don’t realize I forgot to actually reply. He doesn't seem to notice. Or maybe he does and just doesn't care. Either way, he pushes forward and drops a damn grenade right into my lap.
“Imagine if I'd have taken her up on her offer of a good time—”
“What did you just say?” I narrow my eyes at him and ball my hands into fists, not giving a single shit that he could most likely squash me like a bug—which is saying something, because I'm not exactly a small guy.
“Look at you,” he murmurs, amusement dancing in his eyes as he stares me down, unflinching and unblinking—a proverbial brick wall. “You're ready to try and knock me on my ass? Over a woman you say you don’t want.”
My brain is working overtime, trying to make sense of everything—from where my night derailed and how to get it back on the track—but there’s only one obvious answer…
Scarlet. I don’t know why or how, but this is her fault—all of it—start to finish. She makes my head spin in the worst way.
“More like ready to warn you to steer clear,” I say. Silas's eyes crinkle in the corners, like he knows I’m full of it, so I rush to add, “For your sake, because trust me, she... she’s more trouble than she's worth.”
“The lad doth protest too much, or whatever the fuck Shakespeare said.” He picks at the label on his beer bottle, smirking all the while.
“I'm too sober for this shit,” I mutter before chugging half my beer in one go. “Should've stayed my ass at home.”
I mean it, too—I should have stayed home. Nights out used to be fun, but now that Atlas is practically wifed up and doing the dad thing, it’s not the same.
Not that I begrudge him his happiness. God knows he and Nora deserve it more than just about anybody after the hell his dad put them through, but everything's different now, and I’ve never been a big fan of change.
“She probably agrees,” Silas muses, and I swear I don’t know if I want to deck the guy or shake his hand. He’s bold, I’ll give him that—even if he is talking out of his ass. “Your presence seems to have derailed her plans.”
“Plans?” I ask, tipping my beer back, resigned for it to be my only drink of the night thanks to the jackass manning the bar. He said Chelsea would take my order, but something tells me he knows damn well she won’t..
“Your girl wants to get laid.”
An emotion a lot like rage bubbles to life just beneath my skin, but I shake it off before it can take root, because raging out over this—over her—implies I care. And I don’t… not even a little. I don’t give a single fuck what Scarlet does, or who she does it with.
I bite my tongue, refusing to give Silas the reaction he’s so clearly after. How he’s known me for like five minutes and already has me clocked is a mystery. I’m a damn good profiler, but he may be better.
We fall quiet, me waiting on Scarlet to reappear to see what other tricks she has up her nonexistent sleeves, and Silas no doubt waiting to see what happens next on his personal live-action soap opera.
After a few more tense minutes, Scarlet struts back into the bar like she owns the place. I’d like to say I don’t track her every movement, but it’d be a damn lie. Not because I’m interested... I just don’t want her to be able to catch me off guard. She’s slippery like a damn snake.
But she doesn’t even spare me a glance as she beelines straight for the door.
I’d also like to say I don’t tense up when the bartender stops her on her way out, but it would be another a lie.
It’s pathetic the way he’s looking at her, like she hung the moon and he’s just happy to bask in her light. Poor sap doesn’t realize he’s flirting with Satan. Maybe I’ll warn him… or maybe I’ll just sit back and let him crash and burn.
God knows, she’s good at leaving wreckage in her rearview.