Page 37 of King of Pain
Chance lets out a loud—almost surprised—laugh. “Very funny, Pacini. My accent isn’t that bad.”
“Actually, yeah, I noticed your accent is subtle. I picked up on it your first day at Devil, but it’s not as noticeable as other people I’ve met from Boston,” I tell him.
He just shrugs. “It comes out more when I get excited.”
And then he bats those fucking mile-long eyelashes at me and slowly runs his finger over the rim of his beer glass.
Satan, take the wheel.
He tilts his head as if something has just dawned on him, and asks, “So, if Jen’s some kind of genius, why didn’t she go to an Ivy League school?”
I shoot him a devious grin and say, “You mean likeHahvahd?”Again, doing Boston proud.
Chance barks another laugh then points at me. “That’s two. You get three. Use your last one wisely.”
I snicker and answer his question. “Anyways, Jen. You know how she is. She wanted nothing to do with elitist snobs. She wants to fight for the little people—and she was afraid of getting sucked into that world. Plus, she loves it here. And she’ll do great no matter what.”
Chance nods. “I’m sure she will. She’s got that killer instinct. You know, she’d probably get along with my neighbor Lexi. Or they’d kill each other. They’re both strong, feisty, no-nonsense types.”
“You’re surrounded by a lot of strong women, huh?” I tease.
“Apparently,” he says with a laugh. “Not a bad thing, though. Keeps me on my toes.”
The conversation flows easily, the noise of the bar fading into the background as we talk.
“Do you miss Boston yet?” I ask, genuinely curious.
Chance shakes his head, his expression contemplative. “Besides missing my mom, not really. I thought I would. I thought I’d feel this pull to go back, but… I don’t. It’s like leaving Boston let me breathe for the first time in years. Arizona’s growing on me.”
Wink.
They really need to do something about how easily sauce can get in someone’s eyes here.
“I’m glad,” I say quietly. “You deserve that.”
He looks at me for a beat, something unspoken in his gaze, before breaking into a small smile. “I should probably get home to Little G,” he says, draining the last of his beer. “He’s probably plotting my demise for leaving him alone this long.”
I laugh, pushing back from the table. “Yeah, don’t piss off the pup. He might eat your art supplies after you let him out.”
“Don’t even joke.” Chance says with mock horror.
We settle the bill and head out to wait for our Uber drivers, tonight’s conversation lingering in my mind long after I’m dropped back at my dorm. Chance has a way of making even the simplest moments feel meaningful. And tonight, I find myself thinking how easy it is to let my guard down around him.
Chance Sullivan might be my undoing.
And maybe that’s exactly what I need.
TRACK SEVENTEEN
I Still Haven’t Found What I’m Looking For
Chance
20 Years Old
I lay in the dim light of Christian’s sprawling loft, the glow of the city barely seeping through the heavy curtains. Sheets tangle around our limbs, and the room smells like sweat, cheap spray cologne, and sex. Christian’s arm drapes over my chest, his fingers absently tracing patterns against my skin.
We’ve been doing this for years now—friends first, then… this. Whatever “this” is. Consistent. Comfortable. A lifeline when home felt too suffocating.
