Page 36 of Deviant
I hold his stare and keep my face easy, unbothered. “I appreciate that you think I’m pretty, but I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Sure you don’t.” He studies me for a long moment. “You don’t get to make her collateral damage in something she doesn’t even know is happening. She’s a good person, Colt. She hasn’t done a damn thing to you. So, stay the fuck away from her.”
“Or what, Cash?” I egg him on one final time.
Take the fucking bait, Cash. Come on. Just take it.
Silence stretches between us, but the feeling of his fist meeting my skin never comes. Instead, I get a look that’s somewhere between pity and annoyance as he lets me go.
“I think you already know that answer, Colt.” Shaking his head, he stalks back over to where a bunch of guys are gathering around a keg.
Watching him walk away, I flex my fingers, trying to will away the buzz under my skin that wants violence.
That was boring. I can only hope the next Thornwood won’t disappoint.
Deciding to not let that conversation ruin my evening, I make my way back to the party after seeing a couple of guys I went to school with. As I make my way over to say hey, I pass an unattended four-wheeler with a bottle of Jack sitting in the driver’s seat.
Finders keepers.
Grabbing it discreetly from the seat, I keep walking and open the bottle, taking a long swig.
The burn does nothing to take the edge off, though. Taking another sip, I realize I could down the whole bottle right now, and it still wouldn’t help.
The only thing that probably could is tucked in bed, pretending I don’t exist.
RHETT
“You’re not even trying,” Dawson says, pulling his dart out of the board.
Double twenty. Again. He’s been hitting it all night and it’s annoying as hell.
Dawson’s loft is in the second story of the horse barn. He spent most of last year fixing it up into a studio apartment. It’s nothing fancy, but it is a bachelor pad with a beat-up leather couch, mini fridge, and a dart board mounted to the wall beside the bed.
“I’m trying.”
“You’re thinking.” He hands me the next dart. “That’s your problem. Stop thinking and just throw the damn thing.”
I throw it. It lands wide, on the left side, and Dawson makes a sound that’s not quite a laugh but is definitely close to one.
“See.”
“Shut up.”
He grabs two beers from the mini fridge and drops onto the couch, stretching his legs out. I pull the darts from the board and line up again, rolling the weight of one between my fingers. This is good. This is exactly what I needed.
My phone buzzes when I’m mid-throw and I finish the motion, the dart finally landing somewhere decent for once. I pull out my phone, expecting Molly to text me, drunk, or my mom asking where I am.
Unknown number:
Image
It’s Colt. At the bonfire. He’s got his fingers under the chin of a girl, tilting her face toward his, and she’s looking at him like she’s starving.
It’s Molly.
I realize the second dart is still in my hand when I squeeze my fist so tight the thing almost breaks.
“Rhett.” Dawson’s voice is careful as he watches me from the couch. “What’s wrong?”
