The Best Kind of Forever (Riverside Reapers, #1)(10)

“Wow. She sounds amazing,” I admit in awe, running my finger along the rim of my empty shot glass.

“She really is.”

My teeth touch as the tiny flutters stampeding through me metamorphosize into eagle-sized butterflies. “I don’t think you’re right, though. About being a bad person,” I add meekly.

His eyebrows bounce up. “I didn’t say I was a bad person.”

“It was implied.”

“Uh-huh. And how do you know I’m not a bad person?”

“I don’t know. I guess…I just get this feeling.”

He chuckles, and it’s an addicting symphony in my ears. It’s what I imagine heaven sounds like if it could be bottled and brought down to Earth.

“Do you live nearby? Maybe I should take you home,” he offers, splaying the back of his hand to my forehead. “Yeah, you’re a little flushed.”

If I was in my right mind, I’d never agree to go to a second location with a stranger. But I’m not in my right mind. Hell, if the world has plans for me to get murdered tonight, then so be it.

The alcohol is starting to curdle in my stomach, and I can taste bile bleeding into my throat.

“I live a few blocks away,” I reply, nearly tumbling face-first into his lap when I try to push myself out of my seat. He steadies me by the waist, and sparks crackle over my skin from his touch.

“Can you walk?” he rumbles, doing his best not tighten his grip too much. His hands cover a large portion of my sides, with his extended thumb brushing the underwire of my bra. I’m half-aware that he’s close to touching my tits right now, and so is he, because he’s averting his eyes.

I nod, apparently having reverted to my cavewoman vocabulary. Without another word, Mystery Guy is sweeping me out of the doors of the bar.





BEER BEFORE LIQUOR, NEVER…





HAYES





When my boys told me to scope out Mickey’s, I was immediately approached by a handful of girls who knew my name. But as attractive as they were, I couldn’t keep my eyes off the lonely girl at the bar. Even with that dark parasol hanging over her, she caught my attention the moment I stepped into the place.

Autumn-colored ringlets fall softly in place on the middle of her back, her bangs framing a round face. Her eyes are dark, slathered in kohl that clings to the crescents of her lids and rides the length of luscious, dark lashes. She has a soft jawline and cherubic cheeks. And if my eyes don’t deceive me, I can make out a few faint freckles that bridge over her nose.

I don’t mean to unnerve her, but I can’t stop staring at her body. She has curves in all the right places. Her cleavage is spilling out of her too-small top—one that I admire with a half-lidded gaze—and the hem of it ends just above her navel, where a sliver of tantalizing stomach extends into the waistband of her jeans. Did I mention she has a belly button piercing?

Outside the bar, I’m glad for the nightly chill that seems to be reining in my rising body temperature. The sky is a shawl of endless space, save for the milky stars that hang over our heads like sandbags. Moonlight filters in from the leaves above, casting its opalescent brilliance across overgrown vegetation in little streams.

Once we make our way to the sidewalk, the terrain lets up a bit and she gains her footing back. I plan on getting her home safe, then I’ll head back to the house and lie to the guys about accomplishing my mission for the night. I couldn’t just leave her there, not with how drunk she was. I know plenty of bottom-feeders who would’ve taken advantage of the situation.

The girl in front of me is a wobbly mess, so I’m doing the majority of the navigating for her. She shivers in the little number she has on, tufts of breath slipping through her lips and swirling through the air before being pulled apart by a relentless breeze. I shrug my jacket off and wrap it around her shoulders, earning me a tiny half smile.

“Thank you,” she says quietly, pulling her bottom lip between her teeth as she concentrates on putting one foot in front of the other.

It dawns on me that I never got her name.

“What’s your name?” I ask, not wanting to let my arms fall away, not wanting to stop touching her. I gamble with myself and decide to keep a light hand pressed to the small of her back for some extra support.

“Aer,” she replies, a slight tremor to her vocal cords, one I’m hoping is from the cold and not my presence.

“Air?” I ask, making a stupid motion with my hands. “Like, O2?”

A laugh breaks free from her throat, and although it’s at my expense, I can’t help but love the way it sounds. Hoarse and full, melodic even.

“Aer,” she corrects, dragging her tongue across her teeth. “Short for Aeris.”

The name suits her. It’s beautiful, just like she is, but I want to call her something that’s uniquely mine.

“I think I’ll call you Stacks,” I decide.

Her brow crumples. “Huh?”

“You know, like a shortstack. Because you’re short.”

“Oh, har har. Very funny,” she monotones, making a show of turning her head up. “I’m not that short.”

My voice frays slightly. “I’m not making fun of you. I think it’s cute.”

She stops walking, then stares up at me through her lashes. “What’s your name?”