Dare You To (Pushing the Limits, #2)(21)

“Yeah,” Ryan says to Scott as if I’m not standing right      here, as if I’m not important enough to involve in conversation. “I think the      Reds have a shot this year.”

God, I hate Ryan. Standing there all perfect with his      perfect life and perfect body and perfect smile, pretending he never laid eyes      on me before. He glances at me from the corner of his eye and I realize why he’s      pouring on the charm. Ryan wants to impress Scott. Guess what? Misery definitely      loves company. My life shouldn’t be the only one that sucks. “He hit on me.”

Silence as my words kill the moronic baseball conversation.      Scott rubs his eyes. “You just met him.”

“Not now. Friday night. He hit on me and he stared at my ass      while he did it.”

Joy. Utter joy. Okay, not utter, but the sole joy I’ve had      since Friday night. Ryan yanks off his hat, runs his hand through his mess of      sandy-blond hair, and shoves the hat back on. I like him better with his hat      off.

“Is this true?” Scott asks.

“Y-yes,” stutters Ryan. “No. I mean yes. I asked for her      phone number, but she didn’t give it to me. But I was respectful, I swear.”

“You stared at my ass. A lot.” I turn and lean over a little      so I can give a demonstration. “Remember, there was a rip right along here.” I      slide my finger along the back of my leg. “You bought me tacos afterward. And a      drink. So I’m assuming you must have enjoyed the view.”

I hear muffled male comments and I peek at the crowd of men      farther down the sidewalk. The first genuine smile slips across my face. Scott’s      going to love a show. Maybe if I push hard enough I’ll be home in Louisville by      dinner.

“Elisabeth.” Scott drops his voice to trailer-park pissed.      “Turn around.”

Twelve different shades of red blotch Ryan’s cheeks. He      doesn’t even look at my ass, but at my uncle. “Okay...yes, I asked her out.”

Scott does a double take. “You asked her out?”

Hey now. Why’s he surprised? I’m not a dog.

“Yes,” says Ryan.

“You wanted to take her on a date?”

Uh-oh. Scott sounds happy. No. I’m not going for happy.

“Yes.” Ryan holds out his hands. “I thought...I      thought...”

“That I would be easy?” I snap, and Scott winces.

“That she was funny,” Ryan says.

Yeah. I’m sure that’s exactly what he thought. “More like      you thought it would be fun to screw with me. Or just plain screw.”

“Enough,” snapped Scott. His narrowing blue eyes rage at me      as I thrust my hands in the stiff pockets of the new jeans. Scott lowers his      head and pinches the bridge of his nose before forcing that fake relaxed grin      into place. “I apologize for my niece. She’s had a rough weekend.”

I don’t want him to apologize for me to anyone. Especially      not to this arrogant ass. My mouth drops open, but the brief white-trash glance      Scott gives me shuts it. Scott becomes Mr. Superficial again. “I understand if      you don’t want to help Elisabeth at school.”

Ryan has this blank, way too innocent expression. “Don’t      worry, Mr. Risk. I’d love to help Elisabeth.” He turns to me and smiles. This smile isn’t genuine or      heartwarming, but cocky as hell. Bring it, jock boy. Your best won’t be good      enough.





Chapter 11

Ryan

THE WALLS OF OUR KITCHEN used      to be burgundy. As kids, Mark and I would race home from the bus stop and when      we’d burst into the kitchen we’d be greeted by the aroma of freshly baked      cookies. Mom would ask us about our day while we dunked the hot cookies in milk.      When Dad came home from work, he’d sweep Mom into his arms and kiss her. Mom’s      laughter in Dad’s arms was as natural as Mark’s and my constant banter.

With an arm still wrapped around her waist, he’d turn to us and      say, “How are my boys?” Like Mark and I didn’t exist without each other.

Thanks to the renovations Dad finished last week, the kitchen      walls are gray now. And thanks to my brother’s announcement and my father’s      reaction to the announcement this summer, the loudest sound in the kitchen is      the clink of knives and forks against china.

“Gwen came to your game,” says Mom. It’s only the third time      she’s mentioned it in the past twenty-four hours.