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ONE
JACKSON
I slamthe beer bottle on the bar, gesturing to the bartender. She smiles and gives me a finger wave as she settles the tab with two guys. They nudge each other, sizing me up and whispering.
Fuck, I’m too sober for this.
I don’t know why I accepted the beer when Grant handed it to me. I prefer vodka. It gets me where I need to be faster than this grassy shit. The burn is nice too.
That familiar craving claws at my insides, and I taste the poison on my tongue. I wave at the bartender again, this time with less patience.
She saunters over with desperate fuck-me eyes and a lopsided grin. I bet she thinks that’s sexy. Newsflash—it’s not.
“What can I getcha, handsome?”
When she takes the empty beer bottle, she runs her fingers over mine suggestively. Fucking vomit.
I jerk my hand away. “Vodka tonic. Double. No lemon. And don’t touch me.”
Her face falls, then hardens. Typical. “No reason to be a prick.”
“No reason for you to touch me. Do your fucking job and get my drink.”
My agent would hate me right now. My father too, but for very different reasons.
Thoughts of the asshole have me scanning the club for him. I know he’s here somewhere, kissing ass with the team’s owner, Richard or Dick or whatever the fuck his name is.
Robert.
My father, Kyle, is somewhere, most likely sucking Robert’s dick. Not literally—Kyle prefers his toys on the illegal side.
The drink crashes beside me, liquid splattering across my black button-up. If I didn’t want this vodka so badly, I’d throw it at her.
I snatch the drink. “No need to be offended. It’s not you, it’s me. I don’t fuck whores.”
Grant elbows me in the ribs. “Dude. Chill. Before you get us kicked out of our own party.”
There is nochill. This is my worst nightmare. The music is loud, bright lights flash in the dark, and bodies rub against one another. I don’t touch people. I don’t dance.
In fact, I dislike people.Period.
“Captain and alternate captain, we’re not getting kicked out.”
I down the vodka tonic in one go, temporarily easing the craving. I glance back at the bar. There’s no other bartender in sight, and I’m not ordering another drink from that bitch. I’ll have to go elsewhere.
Grant juts his chin. “Here comes the new rookie. Klawasaki? Kaluzinski? How do you pronounce his name?”
“No clue,” I mutter.
He raises the beer bottle to his lips and nearly chokes on the watered-down piss. “Oh, shit. Check out his girl.”
I have no interest in who’s dating who, but with nothing better to do, I follow Grant’s line of sight to see Rookie dragging a girl behind him. He’s pushing his way through the crowd, her hand in his, not at all paying attention to the people touching her.
What a douche.
And I swear, she mouths “Sorry” to everyone she bumps into.
A smile tugs at my lips. It’s amusing, how she doesn’t belong.