Page 77 of The Quit List
And maybe, once upon a time, I would have believed that his current concern was grounded in whether I would wake up unwell tomorrow and wouldn’t want to go to work.
But right now? It kind of feels like an attempt to clip my wings. I don’t want to shrink, I want to soar.
So, I step further away from him, choosing not to respond to his comment. “I better go, I need to pee. Don’t know why I told you that. Need to go to the restroom to pee. Uh, I mean, I need to go to the restroom.”
With that, I leg it to said restrooms, where I lock myself in a cubicle and collect my thoughts.
How completely bizarre that Dylan’s here right now. But also… so what?
It’s not illegal to be at the same club as your boss, and it isn’t illegal to go out the night before a shift at work (unless you’re a surgeon or pilot or something). And if Dylan thinks I’m here all on my own and I have no friends… Well, that just makes me look brave, doesn’t it? Confident.
With a decisive nod, I finish up in the stall and stride out to the sinks.
“Love your dress,” says a girl reapplying her lipstick in front of the mirror.
“Thank you, I love it, too!” I declare. Because I do.
Back out in the darkness of the club, I purposely walk in the other direction and do a full lap of the perimeter so I can avoid Dylan and his suity friends. Phew, no sign of them.
I eventually spot the hockey guys dancing up a storm in the middle of the dance floor, and I smile as I start to walk over.
Until I feel a hand on my arm.
Cold fingers, to be exact.
They stroke over my bare skin as the word “Holly” silkily comes from Dylan’s mouth again. “Can we talk?”
His touch feels overly familiar, a tad flirty. I move out of his reach. “Um, I dunno, I kinda need to get back to my friends?—”
Dylan laughs. “You’re cute.”
That damn word again.
“I’m not lying. They’re over there.” I point towards the dance floor—this time right at Aaron and Dallas and the crew—and then look at Dylan triumphantly. Like it’s a win that my friends aren’t in my head, but are real flesh and blood people.
Dylan only laughs harder. “Holly. Those are professional hockey players.”
Frustration starts to bloom in my stomach. “I know. They’re the Cyclones.”
“Are you trying to make me jealous, Hol?” He takes a step closer, his breath misting over my face as he talks. One of his hands has found its way to my back and I feel the cool pressure through my dress. “Because you know, it might just be worki?—”
At that exact moment, I’m suddenly airborne, my body being pulled sideways as one huge hand locks itself on my hip.
A huge, very warm hand.
“There you are, Holly! I’ve been looking for you everywhere!”
The familiar, much deeper voice fills me with so much relief, I’m almost surprised. The big, warm hands are now circling my waist and I find myself pressed up against none other than Jax’s chest.
“Jax, what are you doing here?!” I exclaim. He’s whisked me—half-carried me, really—to the middle of the dancefloor and he places me back down on my feet gently. But his hands remain on my hips.
Jax, of course, doesn’t answer my question. Instead, he looks down at me, his gray eyes almost hard. “You didn’t tell me that creep Dylan was here.”
“I didn’t know until I ran into him a few moments ago.” I crane my head around just in time to catch a flash of Dylan’s shocked face before the crowd of dancing people swallows us up.
“I don’t trust that guy,” he grumbles, following my eyeline. But then, he faces me again and his rigid body relaxes slightly. “But I’m glad I found you.”
“I am, too,” I reply as I become very, very aware of our proximity. We’re basically pressed together in the midst of so many sweaty bodies, and his woodsy smell is once again engulfing me. His gray eyes hold me captive as I ask, “So, really. Why are you here?”