Page 104 of Wild Card
Bash steers clear of me for the most part, which is torture. The occasional friendly smile or holding his beer up in my direction seems to assure everyone that we’re on good terms.
Except for Clyde. He looks downright suspicious.
From outside, laughter roars. “Oh shit, sorry,” West exclaims between hearty guffaws.
I turn toward the commotion to see Bash standing out on the deck with his arms spread wide, beer dripping from his flannel shirt, a look of shock on his face.
The girls and I watch the spectacle, giggling among ourselves as Ford wipes at Bash’s shirt with his bare hands, while Rhys stands nearby shaking his head.
“Please don’t kill me,” West says. “I really had no idea that one was going to explode.”
Rhys scoffs, crossing his arms. “West, you told me earlier that you shook one and put it back in the cooler just to see who would be the one to open it.”
West grins, looking exactly like the troublemaker that he is. “Okay, fine, I did do that. That’s also why I opened it away from myself.” He tips his head toward Bash in apology. “Sorry, Bash.”
“You’re a big fucking kid, you know that, Belmont?” Bash says, cuffing him lovingly upside the head. “I’m going to get cleaned up.”
Tripp observes them with a good-humored expression on his face. He watches Bash head into the house and so do I. But when I look back, Tripp’s eyes are on me. Piercing and borderline accusing.
I shake it off and go back to talking with Rosie, Tabitha, and Skylar, determined not to feed into his nonsense. They’re deep into discussing wedding plans for Rosie and Ford’s upcoming nuptials, and it’s a fun conversation to be included in. I never really thought marriage was for me, but seeing these couples, the way they can lean on each other without losing themselves has me rethinking my stance.
Being with Bash has me rethinking too.
It has me realizing that just because the marriage I grew up around wasn’t healthy doesn’t mean that healthy marriages don’t exist.
The conversation shifts to cake flavors, and I seize my chance to follow Bash, making up what is the weakest excuse of all time. “I have something stuck in my teeth that I just can’t get. I’m going to go floss quickly. I’ll be right back.”
Rosie’s head flops back. “Ugh, I hate it when that happens.”
No one else even blinks at my abrupt departure, and their conversation turns to live music options for the reception. The girls don’t think twice about my leaving, and yet the crawling sensation of someone watching me prickles at my back as I head toward the front staircase.
When I get upstairs, I head straight to Bash’s bedroom, where I find the door ajar. I don’t bother knocking and slip inside with a brisk check over my shoulder to make sure no one followed me.
My heart pounds as I click the door shut. I feel like a kid sneaking into forbidden territory. The risk of being caught is far too real, but here I am, sneaking around anyway.
Light from Bash’s massive walk-in closet spills out across the darkened room, and I see his shadow take a couple of steps out toward the main part of the bedroom.
“Hey, listen. I had to follow you up here because…” My words die as Bash steps out of the closet, shirtless and utterly distracting. I lick my lips, scanning the hard lines of his chest, and finish in a breathy voice. “Because I needed to get you alone.”
His head tilts, then he trails a finger from his torso up to his face. “Gwen, my eyes are up here.”
“Ha!” I bark out a nervous laugh. “Funny. Really funny. Especially funny because I’m pretty sure that Tripp knows something is up.”
Bash’s head jerks back a bit as his eyes narrow. “Nah. No way. Why would he think anything was going on between us?”
My gaze travels to the purplish tinge I left on his skin. “Well, there’s a massive hickey on your neck, for starters.”
His eyes bulge, and he turns, striding back into his closet where a full-length mirror adorns one of the cabinet doors.
I step in behind him and watch him stretch his neck, running his fingers over the mark. First, he looks disbelieving, then his eyes heat, and he smirks at my reflection in the mirror behind him. “Have I been standing out there wearing this all night, Gwen?”
I offer a demure shrug, feeling guilty that I left such an obvious mark on him. “I mean, it depended on the angle.”
He gives me a disbelieving look, and I go on the defensive. “Listen, as far as I’m concerned, nobody else should be looking at you this closely. That’smyjob.”
He scoffs, turning to face me. “Are you feeling possessive after one time, Gwen? That’s adorable.” His gaze turns hungry, and the way he prowls toward me borders on predatory. “You know what’s got me feeling possessive?” he asks with a slight incline of his head, drawing nearer with each measured step.
“What’s that?” I whisper.
