Page 83

Zane’s shop is the best place for that. The guy never asks questions, just hands you a beer and lets you hang out. No expectations. No bullshit.

By the time I pull up, the garage is quiet except for the low hum of a radio playing some old rock song. Zane’s under the hood of a classic Mustang, sleeves pushed up, hands already covered in grease. He glances up when I walk in.

“Thought you were dead,” he says, smirking as he wipes his hands on a rag. “Haven’t seen you in a while.”

“Been busy.” I grab a beer from the mini fridge in the corner and pop the top.

Zane watches me for a second like he’s debating whether to press, then just nods and goes back to work. That’s what I like about him. No pressure. Just space.

I take a long swig of my beer and lean against the tool bench, forcing my mind onto something else. But my body still hums, muscles tight, skin hot. I shake it off, take another sip, and pick up a wrench and pass it to my best friend.

I have to forget her for now.

Halfway through my second beer, my phone buzzes. I glance at the screen and see my father’s name. My stomach knots for a second before I open the message.

Got called into work. We’ll reschedule dinner.

Relief rushes through me so fast I almost laugh. That means no lectures. No bullshit about expectations. No passive-aggressive reminders that I need to “focus on my future.” No pressure about the hockey game.

I set my beer down and look over at Zane, who’s still messing with the Mustang. “Wanna grab drinks?”

He snorts, tightening a bolt before straightening up. “Can’t. Spending the night with my girl.”

I roll my eyes but don’t push. “Tomorrow, then?”

“Yeah, man. Tomorrow.” He tosses the wrench onto the workbench and grabs a beer for himself. “Try not to get into trouble in the meantime.”

I don’t make any promises.

The bass rattles through my bones as I step into the club. Strobe lights cut through the darkness, flashing over sweat-slicked bodies grinding to the music. The air is thick with cheap perfume, spilled liquor, and the kind of desperation that makes it easy to forget shit for a few hours.

That’s what I need. To forget.

Because if I let myself think, I’ll fucking drive back to her house and bury myself so deep inside her she’ll forget how to hate me.

How the fuck has this girl consumed me?

I exhale sharply and drag a hand down my face. No. Not her. Not tonight.

I head straight to the bar and order whiskey. No ice. The first sip burns down my throat, grounding me. The second lets me breathe a little easier. By the third, I’m watching a brunette in a tight red dress lean against the counter, laughing at something her friend says.

She’s pretty. Full lips. Curves in all the right places. When she catches me staring, her smile turns coy. She tilts her head, eyes flicking over me in assessment.

Yeah. She’ll do.

I push off the bar and move toward her. She pretends not to notice at first, sipping her drink with a slow drag of her straw. But when I settle next to her, close enough that my arm brushes hers, she turns.

“You always stare this hard?”

I smirk. “Only when I like what I see.”

Her lips part just slightly. Her pupils dilate. She’s already imagining it. How it’ll feel when I take her home, when I press her against a wall, when I make her forget her own name.

I could play the long game. Buy her a drink. Make her laugh. But I don’t have the patience for that tonight. I lean in, letting my breath tickle her ear.

“Let’s get out of here.”

She shivers. Her lashes flutter, but she doesn’t pull away. “That’s it? No small talk?”