12. 12
Killian
Red silk fills my wineglass. Of course, Harlow protests.
“Don’t worry,” I say. “You can drink it for me.”
“I’m working.”
I bite down. “People drink at business dinners. Try to fit in, lowly CNA.”
She scoffs, and I return a smug grin. “Unless you’re afraid you can’t handle yourself, like at the party.”
“What?”
“You don’t want me, right? You want that Jaxson fucker. So what are you worried about?”
The flash in her eyes is instant. “I know you just want me drunk. I won’t cancel my date.” She takes the glass and draws in a healthy swig. “One glass. Then I’m done.”
Challenge accepted.
Good. I lean back, praying to God drunk-Harlow shows up soon. I miss her. I want her. I’d do anything for one night with her. Then I could erase that bastard from her mind and—
I sit up straight as Frida’s hand reaches too close, her fingertips brushing my dick. I snatch her wrist and shove it off.
“Frida. What about Matteo?” I say, low but sharp.
She crosses her arms and shrugs.
“You look like you’ve gained weight since I last saw you,” she praises, ignoring my question.
“Harlow’s keeping me healthy.”
Harlow shakes her head in that way she does when I irritate her. But honestly, I’m not lying. Other than the beer at the party, I haven’t touched coke. That counts as sober enough to me. And I’ve gained weight. Being coke-free tends to do that.
Dinner drags on, and I catch up with River. He tells me about his life. He doesn’t ask about mine. He never does. I can’t blame him. Hanging out in crack houses means I have endless stories, but not for his company. Not when it’s your family.
An empty wineglass is set down. I blink, surprised Harlow drank it that fast. She seems more relaxed. With her own wicked grin, she leans closer.
“I am really looking forward to my date with Jaxson.”
Little. Snot.
Oh, I will play her game.
“Okay, good. Then have another glass. There’s enough for everyone to have two. You can handle two and not be all over me, right? The pool meant nothing, right?”
She narrows her eyes and holds up her glass. “Refill.”
I coolly fill her glass past the proper pour.
She doesn’t protest. Probably doesn’t notice. Hell, I’d be surprised if she knew wineglasses have a stopping point depending on their shape.
Fifteen minutes later, drunk-Harlow has arrived.
Okay, not full-blown, but that uptight version is gone, and I couldn’t be more thrilled.
She laughs louder, tells her own jokes, and asks the type of questions that don’t belong in polite society.
But she doesn’t flirt with me.
Maybe she needs a push.
I slip my hand under the table and rest my palm on her leg.
“Killian,” she hisses.
“What, baby? You’re not tempted, are you?” I play it off well, and she giggles in return.
Perfect.
Frida tries to get my attention, but I shoo her away like a fly. Harlow is here. My curvy, lowly CNA.
I rub small circles on her thigh with my thumb. She grabs my hand. I brace, ready for her to push it off.
She doesn’t.
She squeezes the top of my hand as if she’s preparing to, but stops herself and holds it firmly in place. She stares at her plate.
“I don’t want to like this,” she whispers, more to herself than me.
I slide higher, dragging one fingertip over her pussy, which is warm beneath her scrubs. Her legs part before she can stop them. Her softness and the heat are enough to make me grunt like an animal.
She cups her face, hiding the shame filling her expression.
It’s too damn cute.
This isn’t drunk-Harlow, but I’ll take a buzzed-Harlow any day.
She forces herself to look at me. “Listen, you make this too hard. I have to call your dad after this—”
I cut her off. I already know she wants to quit. I saw it in her eyes at the house.
“How do my scars look?” I ask. “Better?”
She sighs, both of us knowing I’m distracting her. Hesitantly, she studies the biggest line. It’s healing, but not perfectly. Some unevenness has formed, giving the perfect stripe a more gnarled appearance. Her pause tells me what the mirror already has. It isn’t healing right.
She reaches out, and gently, her thumb glides over the uneven surface.
“I think it looks great, Killian,” she murmurs.
“Ya do?”
Her thumb brushes over my split eyebrow. “Yeah, they suit you.”
“How so?”
Her eyes bore into mine, and the words roll off her tongue like a dark confession.
“They’re a beautiful nightmare.”
I flinch. “A nightmare?”
Her voice lowers. “Yeah. A gorgeous man with an ugly story. What I mean is, I like your scars. A lot.”
There’s no pity in her voice. She means it.
And that’s what makes my blood simmer. This woman likes me. She only shows it with a belly full of wine or when another woman touches me. I want her to accept she wants me without either. And say it. Show it. Seems like everyone has to pretend around me.
Her legs cross, she looks away, and the walls go up.
Suddenly, my heart stutters in a way that steals my breath.
You just want to fuck her.
God, I need to fuck her.
Then this weird feeling will die.
Frida whispers in my ear.
“Who did that to your face? Was it... you know?”
“Bobby Morris,” I answer.
“Who?” The flirtation in her voice is gone. She’s killing my vibe.
“A dealer. You wouldn’t know him,” I reply.
Her eyes narrow, the look telling. “I need to talk to you. Seriously. Let’s get out of here.”
I glance at Harlow, who sits quiet and sullen.
“Nah, I have other plans tonight.”
Other plans with a curvy girl that better spread those thick thighs for me.