Page 57 of When I Should’ve Stayed (Red Bridge #2)

Josie

“How much money did you end up taking Randy Hanson for?” Sheila Higgins asks as I walk out of the bathroom stall. She’s at the sink washing her hands, and our eyes meet in the mirror.

“One hundred bucks,” I say with a grin as I step up to the sink beside hers and put my hand under the automatic soap dispenser.

“Poor Randy.” Sheila cackles. “Marty told me you were a bit of a pool shark back in the day, but after seeing you run that table, I realize he was under exaggerating. Girl, you’re diabolical.”

Back in the day. So many memories are tied up in this stupid bar, and every single one of them involves Clay. I hate that my mind wants to reminisce about all of it. I hate that my heart also thinks it’s a good idea.

“I’m just a girl who knows how to use men’s egos against them,” I respond, and I have to force an amused smile to my lips. “Grandma Rose taught me well.”

“She sure did.” Sheila grins as she wipes her hand off with a paper towel. “See you out there?”

“Yep,” I respond, but I take my time drying my hands as Sheila swings open the door and walks out.

The instant she’s out of the room, I toss the paper towel in the trash, but I walk back over to the sink.

With two hands gripping the porcelain, I bow my head and force a few deep breaths of air into my lungs.

I’m happy I came here with Norah, happy Bennett ended up showing up and that they’ve been huddled in a corner of the bar chatting and laughing and kissing and doing all the things a newly engaged couple should do.

But this bar is a trigger for me. A loaded gun pointing at all my hardest memories, ready to blow them right to the surface of my mind.

Memories that I’ve tried so hard to push down deep and forget they even exist. Memories that carry so much pain and guilt and shame and devastation that if I let them all bubble to the surface, I’m not sure I’d be able to survive them.

Luckily, I’m now three glasses of wine deep, and the alcohol has provided enough of a numbing buffer that it doesn’t take me long to get myself together.

I lift my head, look at my reflection in the mirror, and when I pull the wad of cash I got from Randy out of my bra, a smile makes its way to my face.

Clearly, I’ve still got it.

Purpose renewed, ready to head back to the pool tables and find out whatever poor soul is waiting to take me on, I swing open the bathroom door and step into the hallway. But I only make it a few steps before I have to skid on my heels to stop myself from running straight into him .

Clay stands in the quiet, dark hallway, a knowing smile etched on his mouth. “Having a good time?” he asks, and I shrug one shoulder.

“Sure.”

“Saw you over there steamrolling Randy.” His eyes flash with pride. I’ve seen that look before. Loved seeing that look back in the day. His lips join the party, and his smile turns full force. It’s a bullet straight to my pathetic heart. “Played the man like a fiddle.”

I shrug again. “He’s not a difficult mark.”

“He’s nothing like that guy from Baton Rouge,” he says, reminding me of one of the toughest opponents I’ve ever faced in this bar. And stupid, stupid me, I can’t stop myself from recollecting right along with him.

I grimace. “I honestly thought you were going to have to fight him.”

Clay laughs. “Would’ve still been worth it.”

“Worth it?” I question on a shocked laugh and lean my back up against the wall. “He was twice your size.”

“Yeah, but he was slow as shit.” He waggles his brows in amusement. “I would’ve held my own.”

I wish I could tell him he’s full of shit, but I know Clay well enough to know that he actually would’ve held his own.

He’s a big, strong guy with a muscular, fit body and is quick on his feet.

Honestly, I swear, he’s part cat or something.

Hell, he’d always ask me to rub his head, and when I’d do it, he’d practically purr.

“Nice costume, by the way.” He steps in front of me, resting his hand on the wall beside my head. He makes a show of taking in my Snow White costume, and I refuse to let him lead me down the path I know he’s trying to lead me down.

When Norah showed up at my house with costumes, I could’ve picked five other options. I could’ve been a witch or a devil or Cinderella. Hell, I could’ve been a firefighter or a cop. But when I spotted the Snow White costume, I simply had to choose it.

Though, I didn’t tell Norah why I chose it. And I knew the risk I was taking when I elected to wear it to Clay’s bar. But I did it anyway. Like a true masochist.

“Not everything is about you,” I retort with a roll of my eyes. “Some things are just random without any thought behind them,” I outright lie.

“That’s ironic.”

I furrow my brow. “Why?”

“Because, for me, everything is about you.” Each word is another bullet, and they go bang, bang, bang into my heart, weakening my resolve with each forceful impact.

“Clay,” I whisper, and I have to swallow hard against the stupid emotion that’s now found its way into my throat.

“Josie,” he says my name, and I hate how good it feels hearing it roll off his tongue. My name has never sounded so soft or beautiful than when it’s moving past his lips with the kind of affection and reverence every woman dreams a man would show her.

Our eyes are locked, and my heart is thrashing inside my chest like it’s trying to escape my body and climb into his. Clay Harris has always been and will always be my biggest weakness. My biggest temptation. My biggest downfall.

No matter how hard I’ve tried over the years to move on, to become numb to his existence, my body still reacts the same in his presence. My mind still wants to take a million walks down our memory lane. And my heart won’t fucking stop loving him.

Between one breath and the next, his lips are on mine and his hand is gently caressing my cheek. I didn’t see it coming, but I don’t stop it either. My body turns to butter and just melts into his embrace as he slides his hands around my waist and pulls me tight against him.

It’s been years since I’ve kissed him. Years since I’ve felt him. And yet, it all still feels so familiar, so perfect, so all-consuming.

Clay has always been the best kind of kisser, his lips and tongue knowing exactly how to coax my body and mind into a whirlwind of passion and arousal and want and need and desire.

And I hate it. I hate it so much.

But I love it more.

I don’t know how long we’re kissing. I don’t know if anyone in the bar can see us. I don’t know anything but right here, right now. I only know his mouth on mine and his hands touching my body and the way every nerve ending beneath my skin has been set on fire.

I only know that I’ve missed this.

I only know that I miss him.

“I love you, Josie,” he whispers against my lips. “I want to be with you. You’re the only woman I want to be with. It’s been five years, and I can’t move on. Don’t want to move on.”

His words are a bucket of ice water, shocking me into realization. This can’t happen. We can’t happen.

Like it or not, the important things haven’t changed.