Page 30 of Trick Shot

I stare at the screen for a few more seconds before texting back.

ME:What about his teammate?

I hit send and hold my breath. I watch the typing dots pop back up. My hand’s gripping the edge of the workbench so tight I might crack the damn thing in half.

BUNNY:I can’t stand being around him. Absolutely insufferable.

My stomach drops as my eyes go over the words. Jaw clenched, I run a hand through my hair.

Is that what she thinks of me? That’s what she sees?

I drag a slow breath through my teeth.

Okay. Cool.

You can’t stand being around me but you can tell me about your day. About your dreams. About your fears, your thoughts, your goddamn fantasies at 2 a.m. You can ask me to describe how I’d undress you with my teeth. But you can’t stand being around me.

I start texting back, playing it off. Because if there’s one thing I’m good at, it’s smiling through getting emotionally curb-stomped.

ME:Want me to break his kneecaps or just dislocate his jaw?

I let out a bitter laugh. I’m threatening myself now. And for some reason, I want to push further.

I press my thumbs to the screen again and type.

ME:Sounds like I need to add him to my death note. What’s his name?

She leaves me on seen for a few seconds, no doubt wondering if she should tell me. The tension curls in my gut like a loaded spring as she starts typing, taking way more time than needed to type out my name. It finally comes.

BUNNY:Jason.

My mouth falls open and I almost burst out laughing. This girl really just butchered my name.

Jason.

The laziest, closest thing to my name she could’ve come up with. And I laugh, loud and cracked, finally losing it.

Jason? Sure, baby.

Insufferable? She has no idea how right she is, but she’s about to. Because if she thinks “Jason” is a problem?

She hasn’t metmeyet.

And I’m just getting started.

Chapter six

~MELODY~

I haven’t seen him in two days.

And that’s the problem, isn’t it? The fact that I’m counting.

Jace, menace of my peace, living, breathing problem, hasn’t been around since he cornered me in the kitchen, handed me a wine glass, and pressed me against the counter, trying to brand himself into my memory.

It worked. Because even now, as I sit on the edge of my bed with my phone in one hand and a half-packed suitcase staring at me from across the room, I’m still thinking about him.

I still think about his voice, rough and low like gravel, the heat of his body against my back, and the way the air between us went still, then electric, then too much. I haven’t stopped thinking about it.