Page 28 of Scoring Lessons

I shrugged then took a long sip of my ice-cold beer. “We’re not here for me.”

“It seems we’re not here for me, either,” she replied absentmindedly as she pulled her phone out with a sigh and typed something.

“What are you doing?”

“If you’re not able to help me, maybe Reddit will.”

I coughed out a laugh. “That’s the most Millennial statement I’ve ever heard you say.”

She cleared her throat and straightened in her barstool as she read out loud, “How to become a player 101.”

“This oughta be interesting,” I mumbled.

“Make sure you make your intentions clear. The last thing you need is a chick”—she grimaced at the word choice—“getting the wrong impression and latching on to you.”

“Chick?” I huffed a short, dry laugh. “A hundred bucks says this guy is a twenty-year-old in a frat named something totally ridiculous like Tappa-Kegga-Beer.”

Her shoulders shook uncontrollably with laughter. It was unrestricted and without an ounce of shame, even though she was getting looks from other people. My heart fluttered, my lips curving into a wide smile. My body turned warm all over, like the sound of her laughter was a blanket of comfort.

“Okay, okay,” she breathed out and continued to read out loud, “Keep a fresh rotation. Never sleep with the same bitch twice.” Her mouth fell agape, then she slammed her phone against the bar. “Oh, my God. Men are pigs. Completely and utterly disgusting.”

“I think you meant to say boys,” I quipped.

“Same difference.”

“Reddit didn’t work much for you, did it?” I mocked. “Shame.”

She rested her back on her barstool and crossed one leg over the other. The movement caused her dress to rise, exposing her upper right thigh, where she had a fine line tattoo of a dragon wrapped around a bundle of jasmine flowers. I couldn’t see the whole thing, only the tail of the animal. But I vividly remembered the first time I saw it two summers ago, when we all went to California for a weekend vacation.

I wondered then how my hands would feel if I ran them through her legs. But as quickly as that thought formed, I pushed it out of my brain, locked the imaginary door and threw the key away.

Jesus.

I was going to hell for having these thoughts about Olivia. I was sure of it.

EIGHT

OLIVIA

THE TRUTH CAN BE A BITCH SOMETIMES.

Asking my brother’s best friend to teach me how to be a player was one of the worst mistakes I’d ever made. But desperate times, desperate measures, and all of that.

“Why did we even come here if you’re not going to teach me anything?” I asked, exasperated.

“I wanted to prove something.”

My eye twitched in annoyance. “And that is…?”

He stared at me, dumbfounded. “The fact you haven’t noticed is concerning.” His tone was bemused, like whatever he was talking about ought to have been painfully obvious.

“Consider your point not proven, then.” I grabbed my phone and purse. “I’m going to call it a night. This was a bust.”

Wesley stepped closer and gripped my waist to stop me from getting off my seat.

I hated the way his touch caused inexplicable reactions in my body, like a shiver running down my spine, or this buzzing energy thrumming through my veins.

I hated how much I liked the crinkle at the corners of his eyes every time he smiled, or how his viridescent eyes turned lighter when he was happy and a darker, hunting shade when he was irritated.