Page 4 of Sweet Oblivion

“Dennings,” Ryker says a little too loudly.

I doubt his hearing aids are helping at all in the crowded bar. Most people use sign language when they’re talking to Ryker, even if he doesn’t typically sign when he speaks. But he does always angle himself to read everyone’s lips. I’ve come to realize it’s basically second nature for him at this point. I want to ask him what his story is. But I don’t, no matter how curious I am. It’s none of my business. Instead, I go with avoidance. It’s safer that way. At least that’s what I’m trying to convince myself, even now.

“What are you doing here?” Ryker’s voice borders on a growl. “I figured you went home with the rest of your team.”

Of all the people I’ve met since moving to Kroydon Hills, Ryker Beneventi has been the most dangerous. Not because he’d ever physically hurt me. I don’t think he would. But because I didn’t actually meet him this summer. Nope. He ordered a beer from me close to six months ago, then came into Dad’s bar daily. Flirting. Talking. Trying to convince me to go out with him.

He made me want things I swore I’d never want and tested every single ounce of resolve I have because resisting this man was nearly impossible.

I want to shrug him off. I don’t need saving, and he’s no white knight. But right now, Douchey Mc-Too-Touchy is glaring at Ryker instead of creeping me out, so I keep my mouth shut just this once.

“Aww,” Douchey coos like he’s talking to a baby, but there’s something there. Something sitting in his eyes. Something brutal. “If it isn’t the NFL’s golden boy.” His eyes zero in on the arm resting over my shoulder, the one Ryker hasn’t moved yet, before dragging his gaze over every inch of inked skin and glaring daggers at the hand absently playing with the ends of my hair.

In another place, and maybe another life, I’d let myself enjoy his hold and his fingers in my hair instead of fighting the urge to squirm.

“Oh wait,” Douchey smacks his forehead, dramatically. “Sorry, man. The only sign language I know is...” He throws up his middle fingers. “Go fuck yourself. That hit today was dirty. You know it. I know it. Even the dirty fucking ref your family paid off knew it. Guess he felt bad for the dumb?—”

A muscle in Ryker’s jaw tenses, and I snap before Douchey ever gets to finish his sentence.

“It must really suck to be such a bad baller that you’ve got to whine about losing, even though we all saw it happen. I mean, you’re a pretty shitty player.” I step forward, but a vice-like grip bands around my waist and yanks me backagainst a steely chest. “What did you have—a whole ten yards today? You really should work on that before next week.” I cock my head to the side and study this ass. I might not know a lot of things, but football, I know. It’s what happens when you work in a bar for half your life. Every game is on TV and then every play is ripped apart in detail. I could probably teach a class on it. “I guess I just figured you were used to coming up short.”

“Aww, Lane.” Ryker’s breath ghosts along the side of my face, sending a chill dancing down my spine. “He can’t help it. He’s never gonna beat me.” He tugs me closer as his hand slides possessively to my hip. He might as well piss a circle around me, but right now, he’s what’s standing between me and Douchey, so I fight the flinch that’s right there on the edge of my consciousness.

The one screaming he’s too close, reminding me not to relax.

Something I’m sure I’ll hyper-obsess over in the security of my own room when I go to bed tonight.

“Get the fuck out of here, Dennings,” Ryker’s deep baritone booms in the busy bar as he shoves me behind him. And there goes a whole new set of chills.

“Me and the lady here were just getting to know each other,” Dennings sneers a little too predatorily. I know this kind of man. He’s entitled. And that makes him dangerous. But I’ve dealt with men like him before. “Weren’t we, darlin’?”

“No.” I straighten my spine and glare at Douchey. “You weren’t taking the hint, darlin’.”

“You lost this fight before it started, man. Just like today’s game. Now take the hint and leave,” Ryker warns him low and slow, like he wants to make sure Dennings hears the threat. The one that sets my already edgy nerves off like a five-alarm fire.

“Your loss, darlin’,” he growls and slides his face in closerto mine. His hot, disgustingly sweet-smelling breath reeks of bourbon and makes me gag. “I’m at the Kroydon Hills Hotel tonight and tomorrow visiting family. Now you know where to find me if golden boy here leaves you wanting.”

Maybe it’s Ryker’s hold on me—or maybe it’s just the last straw to break in a long line of broken straws, but I can’t help myself. “Oh, don’t worry, that’s never been a problem for us. But if you have an issue,”—I look down at his crotch—“coming up short, like you did today on the field, well... I’m pretty sure there’s medicine that can help with that.”

Douchey’s fists flex, and I flinch.

I know I just went too far, but just this once, it felt fantastic.

“Get. The. Fuck. Out,” Ryker growls and tenses as he tightens his hold on me. “Unless you want me to kick your fucking ass again the way I did on the field today. No refs here to stop us, man. Give me one reason...”

“Fuck you, Beneventi,” Douchey spits at our feet. “This isn’t over.”

I watch, frozen, as both men step up. Thankfully, Douchey’s friend moves between them and pushes him away. “Let’s go, Den. They’re better places with hotter chicks and better drinks.”

Douchey’s eyes glow with rage as he stares between Ryker and me before finally relenting. With his beer abandoned and nearly empty on the bar, he thankfully doesn’t bother to look back as he leaves.

It’s not until he’s gone that I finally feel like I can breathe again.

“Ryker...” I murmur before I realize he can’t see my face and twist in his hold. Once I’ve slid in front of him, stormy-blue eyes zero in on my lips, and my fingers dig into his biceps. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have?—”

“Delaney.” His fingers slip under my shirt and rub soothing circles on my skin. “Are you all right?”

I nod, trying to remember the little bit of sign language I’ve managed to teach myself since meeting Ryker.“I’m fine. I could have handled him,”I sign and say, hoping between my lips and my still poor mastery of ASL, he’ll understand what I’m attempting to say.