Page 74 of The Late Hit
“Want me to have them get off the table?” Riggsby asks, shocking me out of our staring contest.
“Nah, let ‘em have some fun.” Placing my hand in my pocket, I keep my gaze on Brynn. “She needs it.”
I can feel Riggsby staring at me, letting out a chuckle, amused at what he must see. “How long have you been in love with her?”
The alcohol has loosened my inhibitions, and, with that, my filter has slipped. “Since the day I saw her in the quad. I heard someone laughing. Looked up and saw her smiling, and it hit me in the chest. From that moment, I knew she was the one.”
Mouth snapping open, Riggsby moves his body to stand directly in front of me, drawing my entire attention.
“Are you for real? Dude, it’s obvious you have a thing for her, but I didn’t know it was that deep.”
Before I have a chance to respond, a loud crash comes from the living room. Scanning my eyes over the room, I immediately find the source of the crash, and my ears hear that laugh that had me falling in love with Brynn two years ago.
The living room table has caved in, causing the three girls to fall to the floor. But they aren’t phased. With arms wrapped around each other and heads tipping backward, the girls are laughing their asses off. A smile stretches across my face. Shoving the can of beer that I’m holding into Riggsby’s chest, I march toward the chaos.
“Sorry ‘bout your table,” Chloe says when she sees me.
At the same time, Brynn slurs, “Hope you didn’t love this table.”
I don’t let her get another word out of her mouth. Bending down, I scoop her up and toss her slim body over my shoulder. Slapping her ass, I leave my hand there so no one gets a peek at what’s under her skirt. That’s for my eyes and my eyes only.
“Quinton, I didn’t take you for a caveman!”
“Baby, I’m full of surprises.”
And with that, we head to my room, calling it a night.
Both of us are drunk, full of laughter, and happier than we’ve been in a long time.
I’mneverdrinkingagain.
Ha. I feel like I’ve told myself this before.
My head feels like Phil Collins is playing that legendary drum solo from “In the Air Tonight.”
Stretching, my arm finds the cold spot next to me. And that’s when I realize I’m in a giant bed, alone. Quinton and I came upstairs after my epic fall and spent the night getting more accustomed to each other. Sex still hasn’t happened, but let’s just say our hands are starting to know every inch of each other’s bodies.
Bringing the covers up to rest under my chin, I bury myself in his spot. His pillow smells like him. And I can’t help myself from inhaling his scent. A wide smile stretches across my face of its own accord.
Is this what it’s like to be happy? Not the false happiness where you put a fake smile on your face while on the inside, your mind is at war with your inner demons. But true happiness where the sky is bluer, the sun shines brighter, and your body feels lighter. Because if this is what true happiness feels like, then I can get used to this feeling.
The past couple of weeks have been hard. But exploring this attraction to Quinton has helped ease the pain.
It feels like healing.
It feels like moving forward.
With one last stretch in the king-size bed, I slip out of the sheets that I could so easily spend the day under and make my way to the en suite bathroom. Inside, I find the small bag of spare personal items that I keep under the sink. Hunger pains are ripping through my stomach, and all my mind can focus on is the need for breakfast.
Glancing around the room, my eyes find a long-sleeve, button-up that’s hanging on the closet door. Deciding it’s a better option than going downstairs in last night’s bra and panties, or even last night’s outfit, I pull the icy-blue dress shirt from the hangers and slip it over my naked body, opting to go without anything underneath. It’s too early for anyone else to be up. Fluffing my hair up, I take one last peek in the mirror before heading downstairs.
At the bottom of the steps, my body halts.
Oh my gosh.
The pulse through my body stutters, landing in my lower stomach like a lead ball. Squeezing my legs together, I don’t take my eyes off the man in the kitchen.
Standing over the stove, with his back to me, is Quinton. He’s dressed in a pair of gray joggers that hug the muscled globes of his ass. His shirt is missing, and all of his black tattoos are on full display. Every ridge of muscles is exposed, and all I can think about is running my tongue over each one, familiarizing myself with his body. I think I might die if he turns around, because gray sweatpants are a gift to all women, and I know what he’s hiding under his pants.
