Page 86 of Jaded

“Know shit like that.”

“The Olli special.” I grin, hoping it doesn’t look sad and wavery, ’cause his words make my stomach go all somersaulty again. “So, I’m right?”

“Yeah, actually. I was seven.” His fingers trail paths through the condensation on his icy glass. “Just woke up one day and she was gone.”

“Damn. That's heavy.”

“Is what it is.” He sips at the whiskey, and I think maybe he’s shutting me out, closing the door on our conversation, when he says, “So, what about your family?”

For some reason, when his green eyes turn on me, it makes my stomach flippy and bubbly all over again.

But I force myself to speak calmly. “Just me and my mom. Never knew my dad, don’t even know if he knows I exist.”

Nat’s brows lift. “Fuck.”

“It is what it is.” I tilt a shoulder in a shrug. “I mean, yeah. You, me, and Syd are always gonna be kids with questions. But my mom is a pretty cool cat. She’s this total artsy-fartsy hippie type who doesn’t need a man or a razor, you know?”

Nat laughs. “Explains some things.”

“Right.” I grin back. “No idea what the hell made her put me in hockey, but it was probably obvious I was never gonna sit still long enough to be an artist. Little ADHD kid bouncing off the walls while you’re trying to create is no bueno.”

“I don’t blame her,” Nat says. “I bet you were a very, very nice kid, but also exhausting.”

“See!” I snap my fingers, point at him. “It’s not just me. You do it too. It’s some kind of a weirdusthing.”

“A what?” The mirth wipes clear of his face so suddenly, I go into immediate hyper review mode, trying to figure out what I’ve done wrong. Bon Jovi’s “Living on a Prayer” seems suddenly very loud in the background.

“I just meant—” Crap, I’m fumbling. “we read each other well, you know? Like on the ice?”

“I see.” His fingers whiten around his whiskey glass. He slugs the rest down in one shot, slams the empty back on the counter.

Suddenly he’s standing. Sliding out from behind the bar. Walking.

Away from me, towards the door, and I’m scrambling after him without realizing I’ve made the executive and probably very stupid decision to follow.

And in an even larger and more profound bout of stupid, I keep talking.

“I didn’t mean anything, okay?” I hurry after him. Through the door, out into the deserted hallway between the bar and the dining area. “I get that what happened at the bar is probably weird for you, and I know I joke inappropriately and I should really stop pretending to come on to you and all the other dumb stuff I do, but—”

He stops walking.

Whirls around.

Takes one step towards me, freezing me in my tracks. Another prowling, predatory step—

His mouth crushes to mine.

Effectively shutting me up because my brain just goes off. Silent. Words gone, thoughts gone. Everything gone except—

His mouth.

Is on mine.

Does anything else matter?

I melt against him. Thoughts forgotten, surroundings forgotten. My mouth opens of its own accord, accepting the kiss, kissing him back, and only then does he reach out to tangle fingers into my hair.

His tongue slides between my lips, so I taste him—whiskey, the faded tang of cigarettes, the faint memory of minty toothpaste. So I feel him—softness, warmth, hunger. So I hear his low moan in my very skin, in my bones, in my blood.

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