In the Unlikely Event

“Rory?” Callum turns to me.

“Hmm?”

“You’re fanning yourself. Is there an issue with the air conditioning?”

Shit. I drop my hand and steal a glance at Mal again. His purple eyes shine as they laser their way into my pupils. Busted.

Ashton is the first to spin the bottle. It lands on a Greek brunette. They both crawl on all fours, meeting halfway in the middle of the twelve-person circle. Knowing they’re about to set the bar for the rest of us, they grin at each other conspiratorially and plunge in with force.

Callum and I exchange looks when we realize it’s much more than just kissing. Richards’ hand slides into her shirt, and she cups his erection through his jeans as they kiss deeply. She lifts one of her legs and straddles him in the middle of the circle.

“All right,” Callum says in his cheerful tone. “Let’s break it off before someone gets pregnant.”

Everyone laughs nervously, and the flushed brunette scurries back to her spot. British Bombshell spins the bottle, eyeing Callum like he’s pizza to someone in ketosis, and sure enough, karma decides to spit in my face, and the bottle lands on him.

Maybe it’s because I don’t have the right to be angry, but I’m oddly okay with this outcome. It doesn’t even surprise me much. Mal says Kathleen has been messing with his life in a roundabout way since she died, and maybe he’s right. So many coincidences happen when we’re together. It’s like we’re sewn into one piece, entwined in the same pattern, on the same path, and every time someone else tries to get close to us, life rips it to shreds.

Callum searches my face—for approval or jealousy, I have no clue. My pulse escalates. There’s a ball of guilt the size of my fist lodged in my throat.

I give him a small nod. “Make the most of it, stud.”

They both shoot to their feet and meet outside the circle, by the bed. He cups her cheek like he does to me when he wants sex. It is technical, familiar.

“Hi.” He smiles down at her.

“Hi,” she breathes.

I realize I’m smiling, too, because they’re cute together. But I shouldn’t think that way. When his lips meet hers, half the girls in the circle turn their heads to watch me. I force myself to stare at Callum and the girl, willing myself to feel something—anything—but it’s pointless. It’s like watching a TV show, a half-engaging one at that. After ten seconds of a slow, sensual, French kiss with tongue and awkwardness and a healthy dose of anxiety, they break away, and something in the air crackles with tension. She’s still clinging to his body as he takes a step back, shaking his head like he can’t believe he did that.

He glances at me. My heart breaks, but for all the wrong reasons.

She can make him happy, and I’m standing in her way.

Not for long, I tell myself. Callum deserves more, and it’s time he gets it.

“Okay, thank you for the PG-13 exhibit of sloppy first base.” Ashton yawns. “I’ll make sure to recommend your asses next time Ed Sheeran needs to write a church-friendly song. Brandy, your turn.”

Brandy is his assistant, I discover. The one who gave Mal her number back in Tolka. Yup, same one with the long, tan legs and flaming red hair that looks like fine cherry wine. She leans forward, her cleavage more generous than Oprah Winfrey’s charity work, and spins the bottle. I already know where it’s going to land. My heart feels like an iron fist trying to break the bony wall of my ribcage.

Thud, thud, thud.

And then…it happens.

The bottle lands on Mal, and Brandy’s smile is so wide, I can comfortably fit a baseball bat into it. Horizontally. Not that I’m thinking about doing that.

Maybe just a little.

She crawls to the center of the circle, probably wanting a rehash of the way Ashton manhandled the Greek goddess, but Mal stands up, walks toward her, and yanks her up. By her ponytail. He does it so casually, so effortlessly, I hear a collective sigh from all the women in the room and realize I contributed to it with my own little moan.

Mal looks down at her. She tilts her head, a seductive smile stamped on her lips.

“What are the odd—” She can’t even pronounce the S before his lips smash into her mouth, and they kiss so deeply, so brutally, so cruelly, I want to cry. It feels like a tiger slashing my chest with its pointy claws, ribbons of blood spurting from my heart.

I’m not okay.

Actually, I feel like I can’t breathe.

When his tongue slides past her lips and conquers her mouth, I inhale sharply and force myself not to squeeze my eyes shut. Her moans and groans of pleasure seep into me like poison.