Maybe Everly’s right.
Maybe it’s time to let loose.
Easton
Lindy might be dancing with someone else, but she’s watching me while she does it. And what the hell does it say about me that I can feel myself getting ready to snap?
With every shake of her ass, the strings of the invisible line I’ve refused to cross for fucking years are pulled tighter. Each time she lets this douche touch her, another thread frays.
“What the fuck is she doing?” I growl, and Maddox Beneventi raises his head from his girl’s neck. He watches me throw back the rest of my whiskey and tracks what I’m looking at. This douche is grinding against Lindy’s ass, but she doesn’t seem to mind. Her glassy eyes are closed as his hands roam over her body. Hands that don’t belong there. Hands I want to rip from his arms, leaving fucking bloody stumps.
“Chuck’s here. Lindy’s fine,” Maddox tells me as I slam my glass back down.
He scoops his girl off his lap and hands her a hundred. “How about you go get us another round, babe?”
Her eyes light up like she just hit the fucking jackpot. “Okay,” she squeals, and I’m glad she’s with him and not me.
“Calling her babe because you don’t know her name, madman?”
“Might want to slow down there, E-man. You’re give-a-fuck is showing.”
“The hell you talkin’ about, man?” I’ve known Maddox a long damn time. As long as I’ve known Lindy and the Kingstons. But he’s younger than me, and it’s not like we hang out together, braiding each other’s hair. He’s always been a cocky fucker. But when your dad runs the Philly mob, I guess that’s what happens.
He pours the last of the Macallen into two glasses and hands me one, then swallows his. “I’m talking about the way you watch Lindy, asshole. I’m talking about the way you’ve been watching her since she was a kid. Since we were all kids, you included. She might be blind, but I’m not. And judging by the way you look like you’re about ten seconds away from killing the dude she’s dancing with, I’m thinking you’re not blind either.”
I look over at her again and grit my fucking teeth as her head falls back on this douche’s shoulder.
Man, it’s easier to ignore this fucking thing between us when she’s across the country, living her life, and I’m here, living mine.
Fuck this.
I slam my glass down on the table and push back from my chair.
“Be sure, man,” Maddox warns. “She’s the baby, and the whole damn family still sees her that way.”
“Guess it’s a good goddamned thing I’m not part of your family then.”
The bastard sits back in the booth and smiles.
Fuck him and fuck this.
I move onto the dance floor and grab Lindy’s hand. “We need to talk.”
The douche’s eyes grow wide when he sees me. Recognition lighting them up.
Guess he’s a Vegas Vipers fan.
I’d bet my signing bonus he knows exactly who I am.
“You’re . . .”
“I am, buddy. Now how about you give us a minute?” I pull Lindy toward me and watch the way her stormy eyes darken as her hands run up my arms.
“Easton,” she breathes out but doesn’t push me away. “That was rude.”
I bend my knees and toss her over my shoulder. “Then I guess I’m sorry about this.”
“Easton,” she calls out, laughing. Damn, I love that sound.
“What’s going on, brother?” Pace asks with Everly glued to his side.
“We’re getting the hell out of here, man,” I tell him and start walking, knowing her whole crew, including my sister, is following behind.
LINDY
I’m not sure what wakes me up first . . . the throbbing in my head or the obnoxiously loud alarm I don’t remember setting on my phone. I yank the pillow over my face to drown it out, but it’s no use.
Wait . . . I think that’s a ring tone.
Who the hell is calling this early?
I swing my hand out, trying to silence the phone and smack my wrist against the corner of the nightstand instead.
Ow. That hurt. Not enough to stop the pounding in my head, but enough.
I’m pretty sure you’re not supposed to be able to feel your pulse behind your eyes.
This is not normal.
I lie with my eyes closed, trying to piece together why the hell I feel this way, but last night is fuzzy. Almost as fuzzy as my mouth. Eww. The last thing I remember was . . . Shots. Dancing. More shots. Then what?