Dare You To (Pushing the Limits, #2)(72)

I grab my shirt and bolt for the door. From behind me, I      hear the hay crunch as Ryan battles his impaired state to stand. “Beth—wait! I’m      sorry! Please.”

At the door, I hesitate. The other guys, the ones I’ve used      to feel something physical, they’ve never apologized. They’ve never asked me to      stay. I risk a glance over my shoulder and my stomach twists when I see the      agony etched on his face.

Ryan holds a hand out to me. “Please. Talk to me.”

Talking—it’s what got me into this situation. It’s what      turned what should have been nothing into something. Part of me begs to stay—to      talk. Instead, I flee into the dark night. Staying will hurt and running is my      only option.





Chapter 39

Ryan

WE WON TODAY and I have no      idea how. Throughout the game, the sun hurt my eyes. My head pounded in an      annoying painful rhythm. Twice, I puked between innings. Playing with a hangover      took hell to another level. Even now, I fight the urge to pull the Jeep over on      the side of the road, let my head hit the steering wheel, and rest, but I      can’t.

I like her. I really like Beth. The moment she smiled at me in      the Jeep after we drove through the creek, I knew. Yeah, she’s hard-core, but at      the same time, she’s not. Last night, her walls cracked.

Holding her while we danced, I saw her—the beautiful girl who      loved ribbons. When she entwined her fingers with mine to stop me from fighting      Tim, I saw the girl who protected Lacy in elementary school. In the barn, I      listened to her ramble about her life: Isaiah, Noah, Echo, and beaches. By      listening, I found a person loyal to those she loves. It was the first unedited      glimpse into a girl that holds everything inside.

I’m falling for her. Hard. And I messed everything up the      moment I touched her. How could I be so stupid?

The evening sunlight filters through the thick trees lining      Scott Risk’s long driveway. I replay the words I’ll say when Scott answers his      door. I don’t have much of an excuse to see Beth. The truth won’t help: Hi. I      took your niece out last night, got drunk, made out with her until she bolted      from the barn, and I’d appreciate the opportunity to apologize to her and      convince her to give me a shot.

Yeah. I see that conversation going well.

Bent forward with her head in her hands, Beth sits on the front      porch stairs. My stomach drops to the floorboard of the Jeep. I did this to her.      Beth peeks at me through her hair as I park in front of the garage. She      straightens and wraps her arms around her stomach.

“Hey,” I say as I approach. “How do you feel?”

“Like shit.” She’s barefoot and wears a deep purple cotton      shirt that hugs her waist and a pair of overly ripped jeans. Her shirt slips off      her shoulder, exposing her black bra strap. I force my eyes to glance away. I      became way too familiar with that tantalizing bra last night.

I stop at the foot of the stairs and shove my hands into my      pockets. Does she feel like shit because she’s also hungover, or because she      regrets making out with me? “My head’s hammered all day.”

Beth slowly sucks in air and releases it, blowing a few strands      of her hair from her face. “What do you want?”

“You left in a rush last night.” Images of our night together      flash in my mind. Her hands tugging off my shirt, hot on my skin, messing      through my hair. I remember my lips on her neck and the sweet taste of her skin.      The curve of her body against my hands. Her fingernails teasing my back. “I      wanted to make sure you’re okay.”

“I’m fine,” she says.

Beth retreats behind her brick wall. Closed off. Emotions      cemented in. I stare at her. She stares at me. I have no idea what to say. Last      night, we weren’t really on a date. It was an agreement. She wasn’t my      girlfriend who I slowly worked through the bases with. She wasn’t a girl I took      to dinner a couple of times and kissed a little too much for too long. With      Beth, I crossed lines a real man wouldn’t cross. “I’m sorry.”

“For what?”

Her glare makes me feel like I’m standing in front of a firing      squad, awaiting my sentence. “For...” What am I sorry for? Taking off her shirt?      Kissing her until I thought I was going to lose my mind? Touching her? Feeling      her? Of all the things I may be sorry for in my life, I’m honestly not sorry for      any of that. “For taking advantage of you.”