Playing Hard to Get(53)

I can’t believe Cam convinced me to come to this hellhole.

We’re at Logan’s, and while it’s not as busy, thanks to it being a boring Tuesday night, there are still plenty of people here. Too many for my taste. Mostly athletes for some odd reason, with the occasional female here and there.

Thank Christ. I’m not in the mood to deal with a bunch of clingy women tonight.

Despite the crowd, I’m sitting by myself at a high-top table, nursing a beer and glaring at anyone who dares look my way, let alone tries to approach me. Meaning no one is coming my way, which is how I prefer it.

The only one who dares talk to me is the same asshole who brought me here.

“You’re being a dick.” Cam grins good-naturedly at me as he slams his glass on top of the table.

I stare at him, hoping I look as mean as I feel. “You’re the one who brought me here. I told you I didn’t want to come.”

“I had to get you out of there. I thought you needed a change of scenery.” He shakes his head, most likely remembering my surly attitude at practice and afterward, when we were back at our apartment, and he made the mistake of asking what he most likely thought was one simple question.

“What crawled up your ass and died?”

I proceeded to tell him everything. Yep, every single little detail, including how I got hot and heavy with Joanna in the meeting room not once, but twice. How I followed her into the bathroom of this very establishment last Saturday night. If I didn’t mention something, it’s only because I forgot, but when it comes to Joanna Sutton, I remember every single little thing about her.

Even the annoying parts.

The great thing about Cam is he didn’t judge me. He didn’t ask me to pay up either. He listened, he offered a few suggestions, I argued every single one of them and then he finally told me I needed to get out of the house.

And he brought me here.

Big mistake.

I am the good-time guy, and I always play the part willingly. That’s because I am that guy. I like to party, I like to talk, I like to flirt. I enjoy meeting new women, putting on the charm and convincing them I’m not such a bad guy. Because I’m not. I’m aware of their feelings and their worries and their—ahem—pleasure. I make sure everyone gets off when the hookup happens, and that they know it’s only for one night. I make sure she feels good about herself afterward, even when I have to reject them.

And it’s never a full-blown rejection. I turn it into my problem, not theirs. I’m the one who can’t commit, who’s out to have a good time, who refuses to be tied down. I’m the one who’ll buy you a drink, make you my friend and hopefully, make you feel special.

Not tonight. And definitely not with Joanna.

She makes me feel bad for what I do. What’s the big deal, not wanting Derek to know we’re hanging out? That guy will come for his money, and rightfully so. I made a commitment to myself, and I’m already about to toss it aside.

Just thinking about her right now has my gut twisted up in knots. I can’t eat either—just the idea of food disgusts me, which never fucking happens. But I can drink, which I’ve been doing since we showed up at the bar over an hour ago.

Meaning, I’ve got a serious buzz on, and I’m on my way to being good and drunk.

“I’d be drunk at home, and now I’m drunk here. I don’t think the change in scenery helped.” I take another gulp of my beer before I set the glass down. “At all.”

Cam swipes the glass away from me, earning a halfhearted “hey” for his efforts. He leaves me alone at the table, with no more beer, and his mostly empty glass sitting across from me.

Lunging across the table, I grab it and put it to my lips, tipping my head back, grimacing the moment the watered-down liquor slides down my throat.

Whiskey. That shit is nasty.

There’s a commotion at the front of the building, and I realize someone must’ve entered the bar. A buzz fills the room, the sound growing heightened with every second that passes and I lift my head, my senses on high alert.

The air shifts, becoming thick with awareness, and I swear goosebumps dot my skin. I rub the back of my neck, watching as the crowd slowly parts and two women appear, dressed to kill.

I inwardly groan. I know them. Fuck, one of them I want more than anyone else I’ve ever seen, despite how shitty she makes me feel.

It’s Joanna, accompanied by her friend and roommate, Natalie.

They’re dressed for a night out, not a casual pop-in at the local college bar, and I swear my eyes feel like they’re going to fall out of my head the longer I stare at Joanna. There’s a lot of skin on display. More than I’ve ever seen her reveal, at least in public.

The memory of my mouth on her tits smacks me hard in the chest, and I rub at it, trying to ease the ache.

Guys surround them—the ratio is in the women’s favor tonight—and I spot a few members of my football team. I’m tempted to go caveman on all of them and tell them to back the fuck off because that one belongs to me. Hell, I’m halfway out of my seat, ready to go stake my claim, but then I realize I’m thinking like a complete asshole and I don’t own anyone.

Especially Joanna, who basically told me to go eat shit and die.

“What the hell?”

I turn to find Derek standing directly behind me, his mouth hanging open like he’s trying to catch flies, his eyes roaming over both women. Anger curls in my belly and I turn on him, ready to tell him to stop staring, but then I realize he’s not looking at Joanna.