Shattered (Extreme Risk 2)

Not really. “Yeah, of course.” I look her over, try for something nice to say. “That sweater looks good on you.”

She preens and again I start to move past her, but she won’t let go of my right hand. Instead, she runs her fingertips over my knuckles before prying my fingers out from the fist I’ve unwittingly made. Then she looks at my palm. “Ooh, you have a really deep love line,” she tells me as she strokes one long pink nail along the chained crease. “Do you know what that means?”

“Haven’t got a clue.” My tone implies that I don’t care, either, but she’s not listening. She’s too into the big seduction she’s mapped out in her head, and I rock back on my heels, resigned to the worst she has to offer. Nothing short of a five-man extraction team is getting me out of this before Lila’s ready to let go.

She moves even closer, so close that her mouth is pressed against my ear and her tits are resting against my arm when she whispers, “It means that you are very good in bed.”

Call me crazy, but—“I didn’t think you’d need to read my palm to know that.”

She giggles again, and to me it’s like nails scraping against a chalkboard. “I don’t, silly. I remember every minute of our night together.”

Interesting, since I don’t remember any of it and I wasn’t even drunk. Or at least I don’t think I was. All of the parties—and the girls—are starting to blur together.

Again, I don’t say what I’m thinking. Instead I work on prying her hand off mine. I finally manage to escape, but I only get a few steps away before she throws herself in my path once more.

“Where are you rushing off to? Why don’t you come sit with my friends and me?” She nods toward a table of four other girls, all of whom are staring at me like I’m dessert. Normally I’d be all over that invitation, but right now it couldn’t sound less appealing. Especially when the new girl throws back her head and laughs at something the old guy in line says to her.

I like the sound of it. Like little tinkling bells. I feel like a total pussy for noticing, but then again, there’s not much about her I haven’t noticed at this point.

“So, Z, what do you think? You want to hang with us tonight?”

When it becomes glaringly obvious that the only way I’m going to get away from her is to knock her down, I drag my eyes away from the new girl and focus on Lila. She giggles a little and the eyelash batting gets worse. “Sorry,” I tell her. “I’ve got plans.”

“With her?” She shoots a venomous glance over at the table where Cam is sitting, fiddling with her phone. “Please. You can do better than that loser. I mean, does she even like guys? Ditch her and I promise I’ll make it worth your while.”

What little patience I’ve managed to hang on to abandons me right there. No one talks shit about my friends. No one.

I shrug Lila off, and this time I don’t bother to be nice about it. “I wouldn’t ditch a one-night stand for you, let alone my best friend.” I look her over, and this time I make sure nothing but disdain shows. “Oh, right. You were a one-night stand.”

She has nothing to say to that. I move past her, trying to ignore how pale she is and the way her eyes are suddenly shimmering with tears. She grabs at my arm, but I shake her off. It’s her own fault. I tried to be nice—I hate guys that are dicks to girls just because they can be—but no one gets away with dissing Cam around me. That girl’s been through too much already. She doesn’t need—or deserve—to get shit from anyone else, especially after what I pulled tonight.

Still, I don’t like making girls cry. It reminds me too much of April, and I can’t go there.

I won’t go there.

By the time I get to the counter, the tension inside me has reached critical mass. Part of me expects my skin to split open under the pressure of it any second now.

The old guy has moved on, thank God, but now there’s a small line of people between me and the new girl. I focus on her to the exclusion of everything else, take this shot at checking her over to block out the rest of my fucked-up life.

She looks good up close, and even though she’s wearing jeans and a turtleneck, both items are tight enough that I can see just how hot her body really is. Too bad we live in the snow, ’cuz this girl should never wear a coat.

I pass the time imagining what I’m going to do to her when I get her alone.

Where I want to touch.

Which spots I want to kiss. To lick. To bite.

With her there are so many that I’m not sure where to start. At the nape of her neck, right below where she’s bundled her hair into that messy bun? At the birthmark right below her jaw on the right side of her neck? Or at the tiny little dimple that flashes in her left cheek whenever she smiles at a customer?

Wherever I start, I know exactly where I want to end up. But now I’m just torturing myself, and by the time I get to the counter, I’m grateful I’m still in my thick snowboarding pants. Otherwise, my interest would be obvious to everyone in the damn room.

“What can I get you?” she asks, her fingers poised over the register. For the first time I realize her nails are painted a funky green that almost exactly matches her eyes—not

what I was expecting from her with all those tough-girl vibes she throws out. I like the color, though, almost as much as I like knowing there’s more to her than I thought.

Not that it really matters, I remind myself. I want to fuck her, not get to know all her twists and turns.

“I don’t know.” I let my voice go a little huskier than normal, give her the half smile that usually gets me whatever I want. “What’s good?”