Total pages in book: 136
Estimated words: 131789 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 659(@200wpm)___ 527(@250wpm)___ 439(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 131789 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 659(@200wpm)___ 527(@250wpm)___ 439(@300wpm)
“I’ve got a better idea.”
There’s a small empty space between the band and tables. She’s the only one interested in scuffing it up as she backs away from me to dance to the off-key rendition of a song I probably wouldn’t recognize even if I’d ever heard of Sleater-Kinney.
“I don’t dance,” I mouth to her over the straining sound system.
With hands framing her lips, she shouts at me. “If you want another date, you do.”
Fuck me.
I abandon my beer and join her on the makeshift dance floor. But whatever I do on there, I couldn’t defend it as dancing in a court of law. I do my best to follow Sloane’s lead, though I’m sure it looks better on her.
“I almost feel bad,” she shouts against my ear over the distorted guitar ten feet from my other eardrum. “You’re not good at this.”
“Hey, if making an ass of myself is what it takes…”
Maybe it’s a little appreciation and a lot of pity, but Sloane leans into me. She presses her hands against my chest. Runs them up to grip my shoulders. She smells good and it knocks me off my game for a second. I’m suddenly lost in the nebula of lights reflecting on her hair that’s dark brown in daylight but now shines jet black under the cheap stage lights that were probably salvaged from a kids’ party DJ garage sale.
“If you’re full of shit, you’re pretty good at it,” Sloane tells me while slithering her perfect body against me. As if I’m not already counting back from a thousand because sporting a hard-on would get my dick snapped off.
“What part of anything I’ve said sounded like I wasn’t dead serious?” I ask her.
Sloane’s shining, sly glare doesn’t give me an inch. “All of it.”
“Goes to show you don’t know me very well.”
“That’s the question, isn’t it?” Her hands find their way up my neck, brushing the hair at the base of my skull. “How do I know who you really are?”
“Sounds like you don’t trust me.” My head lulls into her hands and my eyes nearly shut completely. I almost forget we aren’t alone, disarmed by her seductive manipulations. This chick makes it tough to keep my wits about me.
“Should I?” she challenges.
“One way to find out.”
I expect her to laugh. Maybe roll her eyes and shove her hand in my face. Instead, I think she shocks both of us. Sloane slides her fingers into my hair and grabs my head to pull me in. With my hands gripping her hips, I kiss her. Fully and with more hunger than even I meant to.
It’s intense and digs something up inside me that’s at once picturing clothes on the floor and bare skin, but also hair on my pillow in the morning. It scrambles my head.
I don’t hear her moan so much as feel it vibrate against my mouth. That just gets me hotter, my hips moving forward, just slightly, so she can feel what she does to me. Another moan tickles my lips, and then her tongue is slicking over mine, her fingers tangled in my hair, her warm body pressed tight to mine.
Between her exploring tongue and her nails biting into my scalp, the entire world fades away. I forget my own name. Until our lips part and our eyes meet. Both surprised. Confused, maybe. Then embarrassed when we realize we’re standing alone in the middle of the bar in near silence. The band members have abandoned their posts. There’s just pinball music and the thunk of darts finding their targets in the background, the din of conversation totally oblivious and unconcerned with the massive shift in the status quo we’ve just experienced.
This girl is an earthquake.
I’m still rattled when we take our conversation and another round of beers to a more private table in a shadowed corner. We don’t talk about the kiss or that I’m still staring at her, wondering what the fuck this chick did to me like I’ve just remembered another life where we were star-crossed lovers separated by war.
I’m stuck in my own head until I notice Sloane picking at the label on her beer and the way her mouth makes a sad, wistful smile.
“Silas or whoever probably told you I’m obsessed with Sleater-Kinney, right?” She doesn’t look up from her pile of paper scraps forming on the sticky tabletop. “They were my mom’s favorite band.”
“Yeah?”
Sloane nods absently. “Or at least, she had a lot of their records. When I was little, I’d sneak into the den and go through her record boxes and pretend to play them.” She glances up to offer a brief self-deprecating smile. “I was like five, so I didn’t really know how to use the thing. Then she’d find me and pull out this one that had a sleeve that was falling apart. We’d sing along and jump around the room, screaming at the top of our lungs to girl punk. She was so cool to me in those moments. And now that I’m older, I realize that was part of her before me and Dad and Casey ever came along. So, yeah. There’s your ‘something real.’” Sloane shrugs to herself, as if she’s almost afraid to look at me for a response. “I guess it rubbed off on me. Listening to them, I mean. I guess I feel closer to her. It helps me remember her.”