“Last time I had one of those, I drank it straight out of a navel with a hit of lemon and salt, but I hear a glass is just as effective.”
Tommy stood before her, his navy-blue eyes glinting on hers.
Layla scowled, tossed her head back, and drained the tequila. “You shouldn’t be here.” She slammed the glass on the bar a little harder than intended. The alcohol was already slipping through her bloodstream, warming her from the inside and working its magic. The effect was so nice she reached for the bottle and poured herself another.
“You ever gonna cut me a break?” Tommy pressed his palms against the counter and leaned toward her, wearing a hopeful expression.
“Sure.” She ran her finger along the rim. “Hold your breath and wait for it.” She finished her drink and refilled her shot glass again.
“I like your honesty.” He motioned to the bottle. “But in case you haven’t heard—sharing is caring. I’ve got my own problems, you know.”
Layla considered him for a long, intense moment. Her gaze lingered over the errant clump of light-brown hair that insisted on falling into his eyes, the worn Black Keys T-shirt that perfectly skimmed his lean, muscular frame, the faded jeans that hung low on his hips, the brown leather belt so worn she couldn’t help but wonder how many girls had unbuckled it in a hurry. . . .
She tossed back her drink, poured herself another, and then filled a glass for him. If Tommy thought she was being “honest,” then clearly he hadn’t a clue what honesty looked like. Her annoyance with him wasn’t for the reasons he thought. She was annoyed with him for being right, for showing up at her club just in time to catch her in a deeply shameful moment of failure and insecurity. For those stupid blue eyes.
She emptied her glass, poured another shot, downed it, then pushed her glass aside. It was time to stop playing games and get to the point. “What the hell are you doing here? Did Ira send you?”
He shook his head, grabbed the bottle, tipped a few more drops into his glass, and finished them off in a single toss. “I came to see you.”
She rolled her eyes, tried to say something insulting, but the tequila was drowning her brain cells and she couldn’t think of a single reply.
“Come on, dance with me.” His fingers reached across the counter and circled her wrist.
“I don’t dance.” She yanked free of his grip, hating the way her wrist went from warm to cold the moment he released it.
“You serious?” Tommy’s face creased like he was seconds away from howling with laughter.
“I know.” Layla laughed in spite of herself. “I couldn’t be worse suited for this job.”
His gaze turned serious. “One dance. Then I’ll head back to the Vesper so fast you’ll forget I was here.”
Layla studied him closely. Last she saw he’d been flirting with the kind of curvy blonde she could never compete with. She wondered if he’d gone home with her. She figured he had.
“Come on.” His voice was gentle, his gaze sincere, or as sincere as it could get for a guy she hadn’t decided to trust. She struggled to come up with one good reason not to go along, but her usually well-honed instincts were so diluted, next thing she knew she was following him onto the dance floor.
He pulled her deep into the throng, keeping a decent distance until the crowd surged around them, pushing them closer, and he slid a hand around the curve of her hip and pressed his lips to hers.
I need to push him away. I need to stop this. I need to go to the bathroom and make myself vomit so I can get this tequila out of my system and stop doing things I’ll only regret. . . .
Ignoring the voice in her head, she rose onto her toes and kissed him right back.
Because she’d spent the last two years with Mateo, kissing Tommy felt foreign, illicit, and sexy in the way only bad things can be.
“Tommy . . . ,” she murmured, not realizing she’d said it out loud, until he whispered her name in the same breathless way.
Despite his efforts to continue, despite her desire to let him, something about the sound of her name on his lips snapped her back to reality.
She released herself from his grip and pressed through the crowd, torn between relief and annoyance that he hadn’t tried to follow. That he simply remained inside the circle of writhing bodies, silently watching her go.
NINETEEN
WICKED GAME
Madison Brooks leaned against her ice-blue velvet headboard, watching Ryan slip into a pair of dark skinny jeans before handing over the smoldering joint that dangled from his lips.
She passed the joint under her nose. The scent reminded her of childhood, strangely enough, but then Madison’s childhood had been stranger than most.
“It’s not an incense stick, Mad. You’re supposed to smoke it, not sniff it.” Ryan returned with outstretched fingers and an unbuttoned shirt, revealing the eight-pack abs he worked hard to maintain. He hated when she didn’t partake, couldn’t stand for anyone to be sober if he wasn’t.