Page 52 of The Deals We Make

And yet, every part of me responds to him.

There is more connection in this simple kiss with my former best friend than I’ve felt in a long time. So, I close my eyes and sink into him, turning off the voice that tells me this is an awful idea.

16

VEX

Calista’s lips are so soft against mine, so fucking sweet, that it takes everything I have not to pick her up and take her to bed.

Her mouth opens, letting my tongue reach hers. She tastes like the whiskey we just drank, and suddenly, I couldn’t give a fuck about dinner.

She moans softly, and I drop my hands to her butt, bringing her closer to the edge of the vanity. Stiff denim contains an even stiffer cock, and none of it is enough to ease the ache I feel.

So, it takes a sheer herculean will to let go of her without the gratification my body seeks.

When I pull back from her, her cheeks are flushed, and her lips are a deeper reddish pink than they were before. Never was before, but suddenly, I’m a sucker for her eyes. I’ve looked at the golden ring that shimmers around her pupil a thousand times, but suddenly, I see so much more in them. Honesty. A future.

“Take your time in the shower,” I say, my tone gruff as fuck. “It’ll take me half an hour to pull food together.”

“We just kissed,” she says.

I kiss her forehead. “Yeah. Might even do it again later.”

“It’s not a good idea,” Calista says.

“Maybe that’s what you and I are. A whole lot of bad ideas, Cal. But I think we owe it to each other to live through the next phase of who we are to each other as honestly as we can.”

She swallows deeply, then nods twice.

And with that, I force myself to leave her alone in the bathroom. When I close the door, I adjust my cock beneath my denim.

My mom used to make this dish she’d call the Everything Stew. There was no recipe beyond throwing whatever she had in the fridge into a large pot, adding some black-eyed peas, seasoning, and eventually some rice.

My emotions currently feel like the fucking stew. A melting pot of everything.

I just kissed Calista Moray again, and I really fucking liked it.

And in parallel, I’m grappling with my own guilt and the burning question, how can you kill a dead man?

I contemplate the problem of how I can’t get revenge on Cue Ball, seeing he’s already in the ground, as I pull a large steak out of the fridge and sit it to rest on the counter.

“Fuck me,” I mutter to my reflection in the kitchen window as I turn my phone back on.

The distant whoosh of water in the shower does little to ease the tension in my body. Knowing there’s a naked Calista in my house has my cock all kinds of interested. I feel like a firework about to explode, but as my thoughts turn to Camelot and Cue Ball and Wrinkle, someone better be prepared to get fucking hurt.

My phone rings, and King’s name pops up on the screen. I should answer it. I always do. But I can’t. Intellectually, I know none of this is King’s fault. He can’t be blamed for what his father might have done. For all I know, this was a Cue Ball operation without Camelot’s input. Either way, King was aprospect when all this went down. But the churning in my gut doesn’t want to listen to logic.

It wants to throw someone down onto the asphalt and kick the ever-loving shit out of them for laying a hand on Calista.

I nuke some potatoes in the microwave to give them a jump start on baking, then throw them into the oven. I throw seasoning onto the steaks and let them sit for a while. Hope Calista likes peas and corn because that was my veg of choice for today.

My phone screen lights up with a message.

King:Answer your fucking phone.

I place my hands on the counter and study it. I’ve never ignored a message from the club president before. “It’s not his fucking fault,” I grumble and pick up the phone and dial.

“‘Bout fucking time,” King says when he answers. “Where have you been?”