Page 28 of One Mistake

When I was finished, I stood, wiped my bloodied hand on his shirt then adjusted my clothes. Just because I’d been in a fight—one-sided or not—didn’t mean I could afford to walk in there looking like it.

And goddamn, Finn, anyway. He was going to go in and sell me out. I knew it. Not because he was the kind of guy to turn on a friend, but because he was honest. No matter what. Brutally honest. And if I was going down, fuck him. He could come along for the ride.

And I held that thought, toyed with it, until I walked in and saw all the people waiting to hear what the Glouster Four had to say. Then, I knew. Finn was the best friend I ever had. The only true friend. A guy who’d stuck by me. Probably would’ve continued to had I not made him my punching bag.

I walked in and stared at the Chancellors. Chancellor Fields called the meeting to order then sat back in his chair. “Mr. Kennedy, do you have an opening statement?”

I nodded. “Yes, sir.” Then with one small breath, I threw my future and everything I ever hoped to be out the window.

11

Reese

There were a hundred things I would’ve rather done than tuck a drunken guy into the bed I slept in, but he was too tall for the sofa and the guest room had about six thousand boxes stacked on top of it.

I pulled his shoes off and set them by the door, then tried—valiantly tried—to remove his jacket, but he wrapped his arms around my waist and flipped me onto the bed next to him. “What are you doing?”

“Holding the girl of my dreams.” He tucked me against his chest and let his chin rest on the top of my head. He sighed, contented, happy by the sound of it. “Did you change your hair and clothes because of me? Because I was a dick to you?”

Yes. That was one-hundred percent of the reason. “No.” I couldn’t think of a lie fast enough. It had, over the years, made undercover work easier. But that had nothing to do with the initial change.

“Did I hurt you?”

Hurt? No. He’d destroyed me. “I’m pretty tough.”

“I couldn’t stop seeing your face when I closed my eyes.” His thumb stroked the small of my back, and my breath hitched. Something about his touch made me want to shove my tongue in his mouth, grind my hips against his until he stripped us both, and let me screw him until he was cross-eyed and muttering incoherently. “Those things I said to you…that you were just a fuck”—I could’ve done without the play by play I remembered by heart—“and that I wouldn’t have wasted my time on you if you didn’t give such good head, I didn’t mean them.”

“It’s okay.”

He shook his head and sniffled, then again and I pulled back to look at him. He had tears. “I hurt you. Nothing about that is okay.”

I wasn’t strong enough to resist his regret. Hell, I wasn’t even sure if I wanted to resist. Years I’d waited for his apology. Years I’d wanted to know why he’d said all those things, but right now, with his arms around me and that damned thumb still stroking, it didn’t matter.

“Ryder…” If I sounded like I couldn’t catch my breath, it was because I couldn’t. There was too much Ryder in this room intoxicating me, making me wonder exactly how important breath really was.

“I was such a fucking fool.” He sniffled again. “We could have five or six kids by now.”

I chuckled. “That’s pretty big numbers for the guy who doesn’t have to shoot them out of his body.” But I could see our kids—beautiful like Ryder, tough, but kind. But not five. Definitely not six. Two was a good number. Three maybe.

“Doesn’t matter now because I’m a fucking idiot.”

He spoke with such conviction, and I was in a spot in my head where those imaginary kids played that I didn’t argue. I kissed his collarbone, the only place I could reach. I wanted kids. Not as much back then. They’d been more abstract, a someday, but still with Ryder. Lately though, the tick tick tick of my biological clock woke me up, and reminded me I was alone. Lonely. Five or six kids didn’t sound so many now.

I was tired. Not tired as in I didn’t get enough sleep. Tired as in worn out. Tired of being alone and lonely. Apparently, it made me honest. “I used to wish I would’ve gotten pregnant back then. I was so pathetic. I thought if I had your kid, you’d have to come back to me.”

He groaned. “I would’ve.” Groaned again when I slid my body against his so I could reach his earlobe for a nibble and a suck then threw my leg over his hip and used my calf muscle to pull him in. “Reese.”

When I ground against him, he tightened his arms and closed his eyes. Then he was gone. Out of the bed. In the bathroom, gargling mouthwash, standing in the shower.

Naked when I walked in. “My dick doesn’t work when I’m drunk.” He hadn’t bothered to close the shower curtain, and I could see every delicious inch of him. “I’m trying to sober up.”

“Is this one of those hold my beer situations? Like you tell me it doesn’t work, and I’m supposed to say, ‘challenge accepted’?” Because there was a really good and quite soapy chance I could’ve been talked into that kind of thing pretty easily.

“No, it’s an I’m an idiot who drank too much situation.” He bowed his head against the tiled wall next to his hands and water ran over his back, defining every muscle, making me forget everything I should’ve been thinking about more than how much I wanted him, but about how angry I should’ve been that he was drunk and here and…here.

I was strong enough not to say “hold my beer” or “challenge accepted” but only because I bit my lip. But he was naked and slick with water sluicing down his body in all the best ways. And that was a lot of glistening wet man to resist.

“Fuck.” Nothing like a little desperation to rob me of the last vestiges of my dignity. I stripped off my clothes like I was trying to set a world speed record then climbed in between him and the spray of water. It soaked my hair and ran into my eyes, but I would’ve drowned for this minute. To have him push me against the wall, lift me by the backs of my thighs, smash his mouth against mine and devour me.