Page 70 of Trick Shot

“Orgies?” I offer, grinning.

“It’s not exactly the tamest place for her,” he says instead, giving me a look.

“She’s not a kid anymore, Dom.”

“I know,” he says quickly. “Trust me, I know. That’s what scares me.”

“She’ll be fine,” I say automatically.

“She’s always on her phone, have you noticed?”

“No,” I say—too quickly—shaking my head.

He pauses, taking a deep breath, making the huge eagle inked on his chest rise. He slowly releases it before turning to me.

“Can you do me a favor and keep an eye out? I don’t want one of the guys to get drunk, forget who she is, and say something or touch her. Because I will break someone’s fucking jaw.”

You’re dragging your stick on that one, bro.

I school my face to look casual and swallow the guilt that tastes like rust and ash in my throat.

“She’s not stupid,” I say again, shrugging. “If someone crosses a line, she’ll throat-punch ‘em before you even get a chance.”

Dom chuckles, but it’s strained. “Just keep an eye out when I’m not around.”

I nod and stay silent. Because what am I supposed to say?

Last time you weren’t around, I had my tongue down her throat and my dick poking at her stomach? My bad.

I’m a piece of shit. I know it. And I hate how good I am at hiding it.

“You did the right thing by bringing her here,” I say finally, actively stabbing him in the back with every word.

“You sure?” Dom looks at me.

“Positive.” I smile, and I hate myself for how convincing it is.

I’m sweating. Sun’s still out, everyone else is half-drunk, half-sunburnt, and entirely useless. The projector’s working, the beach poofs are set, but the damn sheet we’re using as a screen won’t stay up. I’m trying to tie it between two palm trees, and it’s slipped like five fucking times.

Behind me, the guys are cracking beers and tossing a football. Melody’s lounging on a sunbed like I don’t exist. But she’s been texting me all day. Well, him, technically. She’s been sending me pictures all day—storefronts, empty lots, little cafés she thinks she can turn into her dream flower shop. And still, she hasn’t looked at me once. Not even when I took my shirt off to hang this stupid sheet like I was auditioning for The Bachelorette: Sex Starved Edition.

I pull the rope tighter and curse as it snaps loose again.

“Tanner!” I yell, glancing back. “Can I get a hand here?”

“Just a second!” He waves me off from where he’s chest-deep in the ocean with the brunette that has a tongue piercing.

“I don’t have a second!” I snap, just as the sheet falls again. I’m about to throw it in the fire pit.

Without a word, someone grabs the other end. I turn and come face-to-face with the goalie. Zed offers no announcement and no greeting, like a shadow that’s decided to help.

He’s shirtless, chest and arms ripped like a pagan war god. Dark hair falling into those sharp eyes that look like they’ve seen some shit. He doesn’t say a word as he starts tying the rope—loop, pull, tighten, and knot. The damn thing finally holds, which is definitely a hit to my pride.

“Jesus,” I mutter. “You tie that like you’ve done it a thousand times.”

Still no smile. He moves to my tree and starts on the second knot.

“Were you a Boy Scout or something?” I ask, my hands resting on my hips.