Chapter 10
THE BOY BAND BLOODBATH
RORIE
The place smells like cheap beer and impending triumph.
Jeremy promised nachos. What he failed to mention was the pub trivia night, complete with a tragically regrettable team name, and a bar full of overconfident corporate bros who think quoting The West Wing makes them intellectuals.
Maya is perched beside us, nursing a drink pink enough to sue Barbie for copyright infringement. She sits back on her barstool, surveying the room as though she’s placing bets. Pretty sure her money isn’t on us.
Jeremy and I are elbow-to-elbow at a high-top under a large tv screen that reads:
BOY BAND BLOODBATH:
TRIVIA NIGHT OF
TEARS, TUNES & TRAGIC FROSTED TIPS
“Welcome to Thursday Night Trivia,” says the bartender-slash-quizmaster, whose Hawaiian shirt is louder than the crowd. “Tonight’s winners receive a free round and the honor of hoisting our sacred trophy, handcrafted from broken friendship bracelets and laminated boy band headshots!”
Jeremy registers our team name with the quizmaster.
“You’re going with... CTRL+ALT+DEFEAT?”
“Obviously,” he says. “It’s intimidating.”
“It’s a cry for help.”
He places his phone between us, buzzer ready and waiting. “Use your overachiever energy for good, Adams.”
I’m about to snark back when two shadows fall over our table.
“Well, what are the odds.” Smooth. Cocky. Rishi.
Jeremy groans. “Seriously?”
I turn. Nolan “Rate-Cutting Rat Bastard” Rhodes stands there in a white tee and dark jeans that do unsettling things to my focus. And glasses?
Thin black frames, casually perched on his nose like he doesn’t know they could single-handedly collapse a woman’s will to fight.
Next to him, Rishi grins. Mischief practically radiates off him.
Nolan’s gaze flicks to mine. Brief. Bladed. It doesn’t linger, doesn’t soften—just slices through the air between us before cutting away like I’m nothing worth looking at twice.
Good.
Let him be cold. Let him be clipped and clinical. I don’t need softness from him. He’s the enemy.
I square my shoulders. Raise my chin.
I want to be defiant. Untouchable. The woman who doesn’t care. But the truth is—his distance stings more than I want to admit. And I don’t know why.
So, I wrap myself in pride and push everything else down deep.
Because fuck that guy. Even though I still feel like shit for making that comment.
“Didn’t take you Big Stream boys for trivia types,” I say, sipping my spiked cider. “Or I mean, types who enjoy public humiliation.”
Rishi slides into the seat across from Jeremy. “Humiliation builds character. You should know a little bit about that.”
I sneer at him. “Funny.”
“We heard the burgers here come with a side of shame,” Rishi says.
“Perfect,” I say. “You can choke on those right after we mop the floor with your egos.”
“Hey,” Rishi says brightly, “how about we pretend we’re not all enemies for the next thirty minutes and just dominate trivia like the functioning adults we are?”
My brows lift. “Fraternizing with the enemy? No thanks.”
He raises his hands in mock surrender. “Fair enough. I offered. But when we murder your game, just know—I tried to play nice.”
Jeremy scoffs. “Good luck, that trophy is ours.”
Rishi eyes Nolan pointedly. “You in?”
Nolan’s jaw ticks once. He drops into the seat across from me, movements efficient, no-nonsense, but when he folds them over the table, the sleeves of his tee stretch taut across biceps that belong in a thirst trap, not a trivia bar.
Not subtle. Not accidental. And definitely not helping my ability to think in complete sentences
“Ro,” Jeremy says, dragging out the syllable. “Your brain just short-circuited mid-glance. You want me to get you a napkin for all that drool or...?”
I snap my gaze to him. “I wasn’t drooling.”
“Sweetheart, your pupils dilated so fast I thought you saw Jesus.”
Nolan doesn’t say a word, but hides a flash of a smile behind his cupped hand.
I sneer at him. He adjusts his glasses, eyes locking on mine. That infuriatingly cute dimple peeks out. There’s a flicker of heat, or challenge, possibly both.
“I’m in,” he says, voice rough with amusement. “Wouldn’t miss a chance to watch Rorie Adams choke on her own confidence.”
My smile is all teeth. “Aw, look at you. Finally finding something you’re actually qualified for—trivia and trash talk.”
He tilts his head, eyes narrowing just enough to make it a dare. “You sure you’re up for another loss against us?”
“Oh, honey.” I sip my drink. “You’ll be the one crying into your craft beer before the second round.”
He grins. Slow. Sexy. Irritating. “We’ll see.”
I roll my eyes.
Jeremy leans in, smirking like he’s just spotted a golden opportunity to stir shit up. “Okay, okay—what’s the point of all this bark without some actual bite?”
Rishi’s eyes light up. “Agreed. Let’s make it interesting.”
I cross my arms, arching a brow. “Define interesting.”
“If the Laurel Group wins…” Jeremy taps his fingers on the table like a game show host building suspense. “Nolan takes a body shot. Off Rorie.”
I nearly aspirate my drink. “Excuse me?”
“Wait, wait, wait,” Rishi interjects. “If Big Stream wins, then Rorie takes the shot. Off Nolan.”
I whip my head between them. “Why us? Why not you two?”
Maya sips her drink, serene as ever. “Because they’re not repressing a five-alarm sexual tension fire and pretending they’re just rivals.”
Jeremy points at her. “Exactly. Plus, you need a rebound. A hot, emotionally reckless, probably-regrettable-but-memorable rebound.”
I blink. “Okay, wow. My sex life is officially everyone’s business now?”
Rishi sips his drink, unbothered. “You’re not the only one who needs one. Nolan does too.”
Nolan’s head snaps toward him. “Rishi.”
Rishi shrugs. “What? It’s true. You’ve been brooding in spreadsheets and bourbon, and it’s getting bleak. You need someone to shake that shit loose.”
“And nothing shakes shit loose like licking tequila off your sworn enemy.” Jeremy signals the bartender. “A round of shots to set the mood, my good sir.”
My eyes swing to Nolan. His jaw is tight. His gaze cutting. But beneath the simmering glare is something else entirely—something bracing.
And those glasses?
Unacceptable.
They make him look smarter than he already is, which, frankly, is dangerous. Add the unfair stretch of his shirt across biceps that deserve their own OnlyFans account and I’m two seconds from abandoning every ounce of self-respect I brought to this bar.
This is a bad idea.
A stupid, unprofessional, wildly inappropriate idea.
The tequila shots arrive. I stare down at mine like it’s the start of a war and I’ve just been volunteered as tribute.
Nolan looks straight at me, “Scared you’ll like it?”
I don’t flinch. Just meet his gaze—blue fire to bronze steel. The space between us vibrates with the kind of tension that unravels good, sound judgment.
My cheeks are already flushed, but I hold his stare. “Nah, scared you will.”
His lips twitch. Not a smile. It’s darker, more heated.
With maddening control, Nolan drags his tongue along the inside of his wrist, slow and precise. A show. Or a promise.
Then his hand rises, steady, holding the shot like it’s sacred. His lips curl around the rim—plush, devastating. He throws it back in one smooth tilt of his throat. I watch the muscles work. Watch his Adam’s apple bob. Watch the drop of tequila he misses trail down his jaw.
And then—God help me—he bites into the lime.
Nolan’s lips seal around the wedge. His mouth pulls back, teeth dragging along the citrus, and I swear I feel it in my spine.
I almost forget how to breathe.
Because suddenly all I can picture is that mouth curling around my clit. That tongue licking straight up my center. That perfect, punishing bite against my inner thigh.
My thighs clench, involuntarily. My breath hitches. My pulse hammers loud enough to drown out the bar.
By the time the glass hits the table, my knees are loose and my brain is soup.
Nolan wipes his mouth with the back of his hand, eyes still pinned to me.
“I might,” he says, voice low. “But I know you won’t be able to hate me after this.”
His gaze drags down my body, unashamed. Then he leans forward just enough for me to feel the heat of him, his words rough and raspy.
“Not after the way you watched me lick that salt. Not after the way your thighs clenched when I bit that lime. Admit it, Adams. You don’t just want me licking your neck.”
A smirk. A pause. That fucking dimple.
“You want my mouth a hell of a lot lower.”
My jaw drops.
The audacity of him. The arrogance.
The challenge.
I inhale sharply, the tequila burning my throat before I even drink it. Squaring my shoulders, I stare him down like I’ve got something to prove. Because I absolutely do.
Then I knock the shot back in one smooth motion, eyes on his the entire time.
“Please, that’s your move?” Heat blooms up my neck like I can burn him off my body if I try hard enough.
The corner of his mouth lifts, and it’s the sexist fucking thing. But I’m never going to admit that out loud.
My gaze dips, first to the lips then to the throat. “You’re going to have to do a hell of a lot better than that.”
I sit back, arms crossed over a ribcage that’s vibrating like I touched live wire. My words say no.
Everything else screams yes.
The space between us pulses, thick and charged with electricity. And no one says a word. Maya is stone silent, blinking. Rishi looks like he’s watching the best pay-per-view of his life. Even Nolan—cocky bastard—isn’t breathing. Not really.
It’s Jeremy who breaks the silence and steals the show. “Are y’all about to start hate-fucking on the table?”
Rishi snorts. Maya’s still blinking.
“Someone clear the bar tab now, because I think they’re about to break a surface and a hip,” Jeremy continues. “Seriously, I haven’t been this turned on since that fireman calendar signing in SoHo.”
I roll my eyes.
Jeremy whoops. “Battle of the agencies here we come. Literally. Trivia death match. Shot collar edition.”