Glaring, I show him my middle finger. “Bugger off.”
He chuckles. Damn, that sound. “I love it when you’re feisty.”
I squirm inside as his words go down south.
I’ve had sex with one guy before. It was a year ago when we all were home for about eight months. I’d tried to do the relationship thing, and for a little while, it was great. But I didn’t want him in the way I wanted Kitt, so I called it off before anything real started. Right now, I’m very much ready to see what Mr Daniels is like in bed.
“There’s my girl,” Coop says, giving me a Cheshire Cat grin that makes his light eyes shine. He’s on my chair, but I don’t care right now.
Jack Cooper—although the last person who called him Jack got a black eye—is Filthy Sound’s guitarist and joker of the group. I love him but in the only-ever-a-friend way. Don’t get me wrong, if he’s shirtless, I’ll be looking because the guy has an awesome body, but I would never go there.
“Cooper,” I say, returning his infectious smile.
He’s the guy who has the power to always cheer you up, usually by doing something stupid. But he’s funny, so I’ve never discouraged him from jumping out of a moving vehicle—at slow speed. I don’t want the dude to die—or from putting bulldog clips on his nipples. I was the one who had bought the bulldog clips.
“I’ve still not had my answer, and, let me tell you, Tex, that stings.”
I smirk and tilt my head. “All right. If neither of us is married by forty, I’ll marry you.”
That’s likely, too, since Kitt is being an arse, and Cooper has never been on a date.
“Texas, beers,” Dad says from behind me.
“Dad, fine.”
I turn on my heel and walk into the massive restaurant-size stainless steel kitchen that’s ridiculous because neither Dad nor I can cook. We could chuck out everything but the fridge, kettle, and microwave, and nothing would change.
I grab the large cooler and open the freezer to pack it full of ice cubes. There’s no way I’m playing beer bitch all night. I’ll do one cooler, and then they’re on their own.
“Want a hand?”
I jump at the sound of Kitt’s voice and turn to see him leaning against the granite counter with his eyes firmly on my butt.
A hand with what exactly?
“Sure, you can start by looking at my eyes and then grab some beer from the fridge.”
He laughs and gives an innocent shrug. “But your arse looks incredible in those shorts.”
See? This is the rubbish that frustrates me. Is it just harmless flirty banter, or does he want more? Does he want to take me against that cold, hard worktop, like I want him to, or not?
I play along because that’s really all I can do. “Hmm, you should see it in my lacy French knickers then.”
His eyes bulge, and his mouth parts. It’s so sexy that I feel like I’ve been electrocuted down there.
I give him a look. “Seriously, Kitt, beers!”
He salutes, opens the fridge, and grabs a handful of beers. Silence falls over us, and it grates at my skin. I’ve never felt like that before. It’s usually comfortable.
It’s because you kissed.
Kitt doesn’t seem to care though. Everything is the same for him—the way he acts, how he is with me. Nothing has changed for him at all. It’s me who’s slowly going insane.
I grit my teeth.
“God, I haven’t had a Becks since the Christmas party,” he says, filling the cooler.
The Christmas party. That’s what he’s calling it. I prefer to remember it as The Kitt Kiss Night, but whatever.
“Yeah, me neither actually.”
I don’t think I can have one. I still remember the taste of it on his mouth.
“Have you drunk at all since then?”
I frown. Have I? Not that I can remember. I feel like I want to daily. “No, don’t think so.”
“Well, we’ve got all summer on tour for that.” He winks and walks out.
For what? Drinking or kissing? Or drinking and kissing. I growl inwardly and throw ice in the cooler, like it’s burning me.
Kitt is a total mindfuck.
When I’ve calmed down, I join the guys in the living room and hold a beer up, so Dad can see it. With my best pout and puppy-dog eyes, I silently ask him if I can join in tonight.
You’re nineteen, for Christ’s sake.
He frowns, so I flutter my eyelashes and mouth, Please.
It’s not like I want to get off my face—well, I do after my conversation with Kitt in the kitchen, but I won’t. It’s not hard to understand why Dad’s so against me drinking, but double standards isn’t something I’m okay with.
“Your limit for the night is three,” he says sternly.
I know he means it. There is no way I will get another one out of this, but I did only expect one, so I’m getting more than I thought already.
“Score!”
“Three, Texas.” His hazel eyes darken as he bores a hole into me.