“No, I mean, yes, I liked it.”
I freeze, caught in my own words before I frown.
“That’s- that’s not what I meant.”
Silas just wags his brows at me as he steps closer.
“Don’t you have other people to go find in this game?” I say quietly.
“Nope.” He swallows. “Found the only one I need to.”
I feel that thrill shiver through me. The forbidden, reckless thrill that’s started to come up in the last year or so whenever I’m around him.
“My dad-”
“Would kill me if he knew I’d kissed you.”
I blink. “That doesn’t scare you?”
“No.”
It does, I can see that even at a young age. Jacob Hammond is… formidable, even to cocky, fearless kids like Silas Hart.
“Rowan?”
He shakes his head. “I can manage your brother.”
“Manage?”
He nods. “Yeah, like, make him cool with it all.”
“What do you mean, ‘it all’?” I swallow thickly, blinking quickly. “It was just one kiss.”
My first kiss. My only kiss I’ll never be able to forget.
He moves closer. “Because, Slimy,” He grins at me, so damn cocky, so fearless.
“I’m not JUST gonna kiss you once.”
I swallow thickly. “What?”
I can feel the electricity run through me, the crackling of it snapping through my synapses.
“I said,” his hand slides to mine, fingers entwining as he pulls me against him, “I’m not gonna be able to stop kissing you.”
And then he does it again, and after that it’s all over.
After that he never does stop kissing me.
Until he does.
Forever.
The second I get to O’Donnell’s I regret my decision to come here. I still want a drink, but I want nothing to do with the crowd in there that I can see and hear through the half-frosted window. There’s a game on, and I know damn well I’m going to see at least five people I probably know.
Nope.
Instead, old habits take over, and I head around to the back door. I slip inside, ignoring the loud music and cheering from the bar up front as I dart down the back hallway to Rowan’s tiny office.
The door shuts behind me. I move to slump into the chair at his desk, and I grin as I pull open the bottom drawer.
Knew it.
My brother is exactly the kind of guy who’d keep a bottle of scotch in his desk drawer at work. I make a face at the half-empty bottle of cheap looking stuff. It’s not ideal, but it’ll do the trick right now.
Fucking Blaine.
There’s a tumbler on Rowan’s desk that I wipe out with the edge of my shirt, pouring a healthy splash before bringing it to my lips. The amber liquid burns, making my eyes water and my throat ache, but it’s a soothing fire.
A cleaning one.
“Is there another girl?”
“I don’t know how you want me to answer that.”
I almost want to scream again, right there in the office. I want to smash the glass in my hand against the wall, or break something important just to feel.
And I want to hurt. I want to feel sadness, and heartbreak, like I know I should in this situation. Because at the moment, I don’t. At the moment, stewing there in that bar office, all I feel is anger.
I down the rest of the glass, and I’m reaching for the bottle to pour another splash when something across the room catches my eye.
The lacy, delicate purple bra draped over the armrest of the ratty couch.
I wrinkle my nose and roll my eyes.
Jesus, Rowan.
Or Silas.
I quickly stuff the idea of him in here with some girl right out of my head.
But then the anger comes bubbling right back. Because suddenly I’m thinking of Blaine’s other girl, whoever the fuck she is. I don’t own a bra like that.
Maybe I should have. Maybe he wouldn’t have looked somewhere else if I did.
The thought is so fucking ridiculous that I cringe at myself, finishing the drink in my hand and quickly refilling it yet again.
There haven’t been many since Silas, and it’s one of the reasons I hate him. Because there can’t be others, not after that and what that was.
It’s having the stars and the moon and then being taken to a cheap planetarium.
And it’s the insecurities too. It’s stupid fucking thoughts like wondering if my fucking bra color would have kept my shitty boyfriend from cheating. It’s the insecurities that come with the man you love leaving without a word, and spending years - literally years - wondering what you did. Wondering why you weren’t worth a phone call or a letter.