Page 8 of A Wreck, You Make Me (Bad Boys of Bardstown #3)

“I’m not going to a dance school,” I tell her firmly.

“So then, I’m not going to college,” Snow tells me firmly.

“You’re a pain in my ass,” I grumble.

“And you’re a pain in mine.”

I sigh, closing my eyes. “Fine, whatever. I have to go now. I’ll see you in the morning.”

After good night s , I hang up and head to the floor to start my shift.

It’s a Friday so we have a fairly busy night.

The floor is crowded with patrons. The music—mostly the heavy bass—is in full swing and the stage is sparkling with dancers.

Most of the girls are already naked, with the rest getting there.

I’m aware that as a stripper, I might make more money.

Plus as Snow said, I love dancing. But imagine getting naked in front of the men who already treat me like I owe them a good time just because I’m a waitress at a strip club. God, I hate this job.

I check on my section and have put in my drink orders with the bartender when I hear an awed wow . This is spoken by Lively, who’s behind the bar, dumping her empties. I turn to her and ask, “Wow what?”

Her eyes are glued to something beyond my shoulders. “Is that…” She squints her eyes before saying, “Holy shit, it is .”

“It is what?”

I wait for her to reply, but she keeps staring at whatever it is that has her attention. I’m about to turn around and look when she says, “That soccer player.”

The mention of soccer makes me freeze.

But Lively keeps going. “What is he doing here? I thought he lived in New York.”

Now alongside my frozen body, my heart seems to stop too.

“God, he’s really hot,” Lively continues, still staring over my shoulder.

“Like, really, really . In fact, he’s the reason I started watching soccer in the first place.

Him and that other guy”—she squints her eyes—“what’s his name?

Carlisle. Arrow Carlisle. He plays for the LA Galaxy.

Do you know him? God, he’s hot too. But he ,” she tips her chin, “is hotter. I think it’s his dark hair.

I like dark-haired guys more than the blond ones so?—”

“What… What soccer player?” I finally manage to string some words together.

Lively’s lips tip up in a small smile as she keeps her focus behind my back. “And you know what, he knows it. He knows he’s hot. He knows girls go crazy for him and he uses that. He’s such an asshole,” she sighs, “but he works it. You want him to be a little bad to you, you know? You?—”

“Which soccer player, Lively?” I ask urgently now, cutting her off.

I’m aware that I can look for myself. I was in the process of doing that anyway but for some reason, I can’t.

For some reason, I need to brace. I tell myself it doesn’t make sense, this feeling, because it could be any soccer player.

Bardstown is a breeding ground for soccer players.

Somehow this town produces the best of the best and somehow , most of them end up in the big leagues. It could be anyone. It could be…

But my friend shatters the illusion when she says, “Uh, Thorne. The Wrecking Thorn.”

Or more like she confirms my suspicions, because no matter how I try to spin this in my head, I knew who it was— is .

I knew it. I know it and my heart is going a million miles a minute and I don’t know how to calm it down.

I don’t know how to turn around and look at him myself.

But I also don’t know how not to. It’s been six months.

A little over six months since I saw him. Since everything fell apart and…

“Did you hear about what happened to him though?” Lively asks, her voice breaking through the noisy rush of my heart. “They’re saying his career may be over.”

A sharp anger pierces my chest at her words, and I clench my teeth.

It happens every time I hear people say these things.

Every time I hear it on the radio or read it on the internet, see it on social media, I want to throttle someone.

I want to scream in their faces to stop it.

To stop spewing bullshit about him. Don’t they know who he is?

He’s a Thorne. He can come back from anything. Even from what happened six months ago.

“I don’t believe all the speculation, but,” Lively continues, shaking her head, her voice full of pity, “what happened to him was brutal. Like, really brutal. His fiancée was cheating on him. With his twin brother. God .” She puts a hand to her chest. “Can you believe that? But wait, it gets even worse. When he found out about it, he got into this huge fight with his twin. Who beat him up . Yeah. It was so bad he couldn’t play in the championship game last season.

” She keeps shaking her head. “It was all over the news. Like, literally. Magazines, articles. Talk shows. Yikes. Everyone kept speculating on whether he’d be able to play again or not.

Because apparently, his twin broke a bunch of his bones. ”

I swallow, my tongue thick in my mouth. “Six.”

“What?”

“He broke six of his bones.”

Four ribs, his nose and his left wrist. Some articles said it was his left ankle too, thereby creating speculation and starting rumors that Shepard Thorne, the Shepard Thorne of New York City FC might never be able to play again.

I’m not sure why they’d do that, why they’d lie, because the doctors’ reports were clear.

But I’m guessing they did it for the views.

“Wow, that’s insane,” Lively says. “No wonder people are saying he’s off his game.

I mean, how do you come back from that? From your fiancée cheating on you with your twin brother and then that twin brother goes ahead and breaks your bones?

All before the most important game of the season?

What a nightmare. The guy lost everything in one night.

I’m just surprised he’s coming back next season. ”

Me too. Not because I don’t believe in him or believe he can come back from what happened six months ago, but because of the rampant speculation about him, all the rumors and gossip.

All the pity and sympathy people throw at him while talking about him behind his back.

As if they know him. As if they know anything he’s gone through.

He was right when he said people think his life is a reality TV show that they can watch while breaking out the popcorn.

And I don’t know how he handles that. I don’t know how he can handle all the pressure that the world seems to put on him.

“Can we,” I begin, “not talk about this? I just… I don’t want to gossip.”

“Oh shit,” Lively says, her eyes contrite. “I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean to.”

“No, you’re fine. I just don’t feel right.”

She nods. “No, you’re right. We shouldn’t. It’s not as if we were there and actually know what happened. Most of this stuff is exaggeration or downright false anyway.”

I was there. When it happened. I was there while it was happening. While his twin was beating him up and breaking his bones. I was there when a crowd had gathered and someone called 911.

But I still don’t want to talk about it behind his back.

In any case, I have work to do. So when the bartender finally puts the drinks I’ve been waiting for in front of me, I brace myself.

I tell myself I can’t let his presence affect my job.

Yes, I hate this job but I need it. So I need to go deliver drinks to people, and that’s exactly what I intend to do.

But all my good intentions evaporate when I finally, after months, clap eyes on him.

And my heart starts twisting and pounding in my chest.

He’s sprawled on the red leather couch, his hands gripping the armrests, his head tipped back as a stripper grinds herself in his lap.

I can only see his profile from here, the slant of his jaw and the peaked bones of his cheek.

Not to mention, the club is dark with only a red neon-y light to illuminate things.

But even so, I know he’s having a good time.

I know he’s completely engrossed in the way the blonde stripper is writhing on his lap.

He probably doesn’t even sense the world around him, let alone that someone is watching him get a lap dance.

I don’t really want it to, but jealousy burns hot in my veins.

Hotter than all the other times I’ve seen him with a girl.

Hotter even than when he went down on one knee for his girlfriend in front of the whole world.

Maybe because I’ve spent the last six months worried about him.

I’ve spent every single night tossing and turning, imagining him at the hospital, seeing his unconscious body.

Imagining his pain . Not of the broken bones but of a broken heart.

Because the girl he loved, the girl he thought he’d spend the rest of his life with, chose his twin brother over him.

And he’s here, getting a lap dance as if everything is okay.

I know I should give myself time to cool down, to see reason.

I’m sure this lap dance doesn’t mean anything in the bigger scheme of things.

But I begin to walk. I have four vodka martinis on my tray that I need to deliver to one of the tables in my section.

But instead of walking toward it, I head to where he is. Instead of passing him by, I stop.

Then, I pretend to stumble.

The tray in my hand wobbles. I can save it, but I don’t. I let the glasses slide to the edge and tip over. A couple land at his feet and shatter, spilling the drinks. One lands on his chest and the other goes directly to his lap.

At which point, he finally looks away from the girl in his lap and our gazes clash.