Joy Ride(15)

I point to the guy behind the glass. “You want Peter’s number?”

“I don’t know. Do you think he likes piña coladas and making love in the rain?”

For a flash second, a burst of wildfire curls through my veins. It feels like white-hot jealousy. Which is ridiculous since she’s not making love to Peter.

Or me, for that matter, obviously.

I fight off the envy with a full dose of sarcasm. “Have you ever noticed you never have a good pair of headphones when you need them?”

She huffs. “Message received. I’ll just shut up and read a book.” She reaches for her phone on the seat, but accidentally knocks it to the floor of the car. I lean down to pick it up, and when I hand it to her I see her playlist.

Nena’s “99 Luftballons.”

The Go-Go’s “Vacation.”

Madonna’s “Like a Virgin.”

I smirk. That’s too fucking adorable. “You like bubblegum pop?”

Her cheeks go red. “There’s nothing wrong with bubblegum pop,” she says as she tries to grab her phone from my hand.

I. Can’t. Resist.

I don’t know what comes over me, but I’m pretty damn sure it’s the way this girl needles me. It’s her French maid routine. It’s her pushing all my buttons. It’s the way she detests me.

I hold her phone behind my head.

“Max,” she says, in a perfect plea. God, it’s hot. I can hear her saying it in bed.

I feign surprise. “Oh, did you want your phone back, tiger?”

Her eyes widen when I use that word. Frankly, I’m surprised I said it. But she is a tiger, especially right now as she leans across the seat, reaching for it.

Damn, I’m an asshole. And yet, I can’t seem to stop playing keep-away with her phone, jamming it far behind me so that it hits the side of the car. She lunges for it, thrusting her arm out, but only hitting my forearm.

She swats me. “Give it to me.”

My brain short-circuits. God, she would sound hot saying that bent over the bed.

Then in a flurry, she unbuckles her seat belt and lunges at me.

Foul play indeed.

She’s on me. She’s fucking on me. She climbs, stretching high, her tits near my motherfucking face, so help me God. They are saggy, drooping, ugly breasts.

Except they’re not.

They’re perfect. Lush, ripe.

Like her sweet perfume scent. Like her cinnamon breath that flutters across my cheek as she rises higher. As she reaches, her T-shirt rides up, revealing a sliver of her stomach.

I’ve never seen anything so sexy in my life.

I don’t move. I don’t breathe.

I simply try not to grow more aroused. But then she wraps one hand around my wrist and pries the phone with the other as her breasts smash against my eyes.

Man down.

A second later, she wrenches back, dropping down to her seat, clutching her phone. She smooths her hand over her shirt. She won’t look at me. “Something secret on your phone?”

She jerks her head and gives me a look that could kill.

I should be pissed at her. I should torment her more. But I feel as if she’s got a legit fear, and I don’t want to be a dick. Nor do I want my dick to be in charge. He’s an idiot.

I breathe a silent sigh of relief that Operation Deflation is underway.

“Sorry,” I mutter.

She nods as she stares ahead.

I take my phone from my pocket, toggle over to my Google streaming music, and search for a song. I turn up the volume, close my eyes, and let Cyndi Lauper’s “Girls Just Wanna Have Fun” fill the silence between us.

When the song nears its end, I open one eye. Henley’s not looking at me. She’s gazing straight ahead, but there’s a smile on her face that says she likes the song.

And the sentiment.





8





The white ball screams across the table, straight at the purple one that’s mere inches from the corner pocket. But the cue ball misses, whacking the side of the table with a dull thud instead.

That’s how my night has gone.

I curse under my breath. Usually, I kill it at pool. Tonight, I’m a doormat.

“Allow me to show you how it’s done.”

My buddy Patrick takes a swig of his beer, sets down the bottle on the wooden side of the table, and lines up the pool stick. Narrowing his eyes, he takes aim. With a light tap, he delivers the white ball with a textbook stop-shot that sends an orange-striped ball neatly into the pocket.

And gives him the game.

“And that’s how you beat the resident pool shark,” he says, thrusting his arms in the air.

I shake my head in defeat. “Man, I suck tonight.”

Patrick laughs. “You do. But I’m also awesome. So maybe you want to give me some credit, too.”