Five Ways to Fall (Ten Tiny Breaths #4)(9)

Nothing worse than a girl crying halfway through sex. A definite limp dick maker.

She clears her throat. “I didn’t see any tattoos on you.”

Okay, at least she’s trying to steer the conversation away from her and her current situation. I can roll with that. “You haven’t seen all of me yet.” I know I sound like a cocky bastard, but it somehow works for me.

A tiny sly grin curves her mouth for just a moment before she stifles it, as if she didn’t mean to let it slip out. “Any hidden ones?”

“Nope. Hate needles,” I answer truthfully.

“Wuss.”

I shrug. “You obviously don’t mind them. Any tats or piercings besides the ones I see?”

All I get is a taunting smile in return. Fuck.

A sudden burst of Rihanna pumps out over the speakers as the regular lights dim down and the dance-floor lights kick in, indicating that the hotel lounge is turning into a club as it does every night at this time. Jill’s cringe tells me she’s not impressed.

“Not your kind of music?” My gaze immediately drops to her tank top, a faded Pearl Jam album cover printed on the front of it.

She shakes her head. “I’m more into classic rock and nineties alternative.”

Seriously? “Were you even alive for that?”

“I can play every single Aerosmith song ever recorded on the guitar,” she says, as if that answers my question.

Sweet Jesus. Stretching my legs out as I try to picture her rocking out with a guitar strung over her shoulder—naked—I offer, “You know, girls who play the guitar are f**king hot. You any good?”

Another cunning smile behind her drink answers me. Yeah, she’s good. And, damn it, so sexy. In a loose cannon kind of way. The only kind that snags me like a trout on a shark hook. Just like Kacey, one of my best friends, did. That girl had a self-destruct button affixed to her chest for the longest time. I saw it a mile away and I still fell for her hard.

Angelo chooses that moment to swoop in and place a drink in her hand and a shot of tequila on the table for everyone. Jill doesn’t even wait. She lifts the glass to her lips and downs it. No salt, no lime.

“Am I going to have to carry you home tonight?” I offer with a wide grin.

She smacks her lips as she drops the glass onto the table rather loudly. “I think I’m going to aim for waking up naked on the beach.”

“I have some experience with that. I can give you a few pointers.”

Her hawkish eyes roll over my body slowly before landing on my face, fixing a hard gaze on my mouth. “You’re not my type.”

I’ve heard this before and I don’t believe her. Hell, I’m everyone’s type! Eventually. “And what is it exactly about me that you don’t like?”

A wicked gleam in her eyes tells me she thinks I’m going to regret asking. Little does she know, I don’t give a shit. I have a thick skin and an easy sense of humor. This should actually be amusing.

“The womanizing mama’s-boy football-player part who spreads the charm on like peanut butter and has had a different girl in his hotel room every night this week.”

“Not every night.”

She rolls her eyes. “Oh, and you’re blond. I’m not into blonds.”

“You’re completely wrong about me.” She’s pretty much nailed it, actually.

“Really?” As if to prove her point, she taps the ring on my finger. The one I earned taking my team to the state championships.

“I don’t play anymore.”

“Not good enough?”

I chuckle. She’s good at the hits to the ego. “Too good, apparently, because some guy felt the need to wreck my knee.” Between the dislocated joint, the torn ligaments, and the nerve damage, I’m surprised I can even run anymore.

Those caramel eyes soften for just a flash, so fast I almost miss it. “I’m still not sleeping with you.”

“Well, I don’t know what you had planned, but I’m just here to hang out and make some new friends,” I offer, feigning innocence.

This one’s going to be a bit more challenging than I thought.

But she’ll change her tune eventually.

Chapter 3

REESE

“You know they rob you blind when you rent a room to yourself at these places,” I announce, as I stumble into Ben’s hotel room. It’s the cookie-cutter design—two queen-sized beds covered in tropical floral bedspreads and adorned with swan towel creations, the walls plastered with tacky mass-production artwork.

I hear the door lock click behind me. “Yeah, but it’s worth it on nights like this. Wouldn’t you agree?”

“You’ve got this all figured out, don’t you, Don Juan.” I half-fall, half-lean against the wall to balance myself as I kick off my flip-flops. Once I got past the whole red shirt issue—I hold a special kind of grudge against that color—I realized that Nicki may have called forth the perfect exorcism candidate after all. As if his dazzling blue eyes and deep dimples weren’t enough to win me over, the second Ben pulled his shirt off in the middle of the lounge and stood there like an arrogant bastard, that incredibly ripped body of his on proud display, I knew there would be no pretenses with this guy. No confusion. No false promises of a life together. Or even a phone call.