“Stop feeling fucking sorry for yourself, man.”
By now, Dice is back with us, and the gun he’s holding is pointed at my chest. At the tattoo I’m sporting there, to be exact.
“Goodbye, Jack.” Thomas walks away. When he’s far enough that I can’t get to him easily, but still within earshot, I yell out to him.
“Who was it, Thomas?”
Because I need the confirmation.
I need a goddamn name.
“That I don’t know. Yet.” He calls back without a glance this time. “I never met him face-to-face.”
He calls off Dice after that bullshit comment, and they all disappear into the neighborhood buildings like rats during a flood.
I guess that’s that.
I’m on my own here. Fine by me, but other than the backstory on what Thomas has to do with this shit, I’m still at square one with finding out where the hell Stix is.
I check my watch. It’s fucking early. I need some sleep and time to prep for stalking Anonymous tonight.
On to plan B.
X X X
A couple shots of liquid courage later and I’m sitting in a dark corner of the city’s most famously kept-quiet cheaters club, watching Green. I’m slumped like most of the drunks here and the baseball cap I’m sporting will hopefully be enough to hide my face.
Emma however, is out there, plain as day, waiting for her next instructions from the king douche of this whole situation.
A random woman, wearing a cheap wig, slides up into my booth and puts her hand on my dick.
“Hi, I’m Vanessa.”
“And I’m not fucking interested.” I take her hand and move it to her own leg.
“You’re no fun.” She pouts and puts her lips up next to my fucking face. Like that’s tempting.
“Not tonight, honey.” Or any other night, for that matter. No, and thank you.
“Jackass.” She gets angry and pushes herself out of the booth.
“Good meeting you.” I wave as she stalks away, looking for another score. I shiver off the encounter because, blech.
Green giggles over by the bar. She clearly saw that shit. I give her the finger and look the other way to see if anyone here seems like they might be a visitor of the asshattery kind.
When my attention returns to where Green was, she’s gone.
I’d like to say I handle the situation with the cool ease of an experienced detective, but I’m in full on panic mode for about thirty-point-five seconds. All that changes when I feel warm, familiar lips on my neck from behind me.
My heart rate can’t take giving a fuck about someone.
That’s all I’m saying.
“You’ve got a nice, quiet corner here, Mr. Stiles.” She whispers with this Marilyn Monroe kinda voice going on.
She had to go there.
I turn to give her some of her own medicine when she says, “Kiss me.”
“Damn, Green, we just─”
“Seriously, kiss me. Someone’s headed this way.”
She licks her lips, and my eyes zero in on them like a deer in the headlights. They’re full and tasty-looking, and best of all, they’re not covered with any of that sticky ass lipstick bullshit. Just gloss. Barely any, at that. And it smells like fucking cherries.
“No problem whatsoever.”
Now, should I be more concerned with the fact that this anonymous douche might very well be here, somewhere? Maybe. On the other hand, it’s not like the guy’s going anywhere. Not yet, anyway.
So I press my lips against hers. They’re fucking delicious and soft, and they move with mine perfectly.
Her tongue teases mine. She knows that shit pisses me off. So I give a little back by moving my attentions across her jaw, below her ear. I move some hair and kiss around to the back of her neck.
“Ah. Not there,” she mumbles.
I smile against her skin. “You don’t like it?”
She breathes a little heavier. “I didn’t say that.”
“Then why stop?”
“Mmmm.” She twitches her neck and shoulder together. “Because if you keep doing that, I’m not sure I can continue focusing on what’s going on around us.”
Another kiss. A small suck. A tiny lick.
I slide a hand around her waist into the waist of her jeans.
“This is profoundly improving my day, Green. And you smell really fucking good. Don’t rain on my parade.”
She hums again. Her chest rises and falls. Rises and falls.
“Stiles.” Her brain wants her to tell me to stop. She won’t say it, though. She can’t. Not any more than I can actually stop.
Not right fucking now.
“Jackson.” It’s a whisper this time, and it makes me tense.
It makes my blood run hot.
Don’t get me wrong. Women have said my name before. First, last. Either, or. They groan. They pant. They demand I give them something they can’t find anywhere else.
There’s something about the way Green says it, though.
Something about the meaning behind the way she says it.
Like she’s promising me something.
Like she wants me to promise, too.
What scares me is I’d probably do it.
And I don’t scare fucking easily, people.