Pants On Fire by Lacey Black

Author:Lacey Black [Black, Lacey]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Published: 2020-04-06T18:30:00+00:00

Chapter Eleven

Cricket

Where the hell is he?

I head for the bar, anxious to get away from our table. Away from Danny.

The moment Rueben excused himself to the restroom, I noticed Ellen’s eyes follow him as he exited the room. When she turned and saw me staring, she only smiled that conniving, vindictive grin that let me know she was up to something. Before I could get up and follow him, she left, heading off to use the restroom.

Everything inside me wanted to follow her. I knew where she was going. But a bigger part of me realized I trust him. Even if our relationship is totally fake, Rueben would never do anything to hurt me, and that includes getting it on with Ellen in the supply closet. So that’s why I stayed in my seat and listened to the chairperson of the alumni foundation speak on raising more money.

The moment she finished her speech, they started to clear the tables of dinner remnants and brought out a band for dancing. Danny took the opportunity to slide over two seats, occupying the one Rueben recently vacated. He instantly started talking about himself, about his contributions to the school, and blah blah blah, but my eyes kept wandering over to the door Rueben and Ellen went through not too long ago.

“You look beautiful tonight,” he said, leaning in too closely for my liking.

“Thanks.” My reply was short and sweet. He wasn’t getting a compliment back.

“Listen, about us,” he started, but I had already heard enough.

Standing up, my chair scooting loudly across the tile floor, I said, “There is no us. If you’ll excuse me.”

And then I headed for the bar.

Here I am, stepping up and ordering a glass of merlot to calm my frazzled nerves. I mean, who does he think he is? He left me, remember? More than ten years ago, the morning of our graduation and the day before we were to leave to start our new life together?

Fuck him.

“Fuck Danny Ohara,” I mumble, as the bartender sets the glass of wine down in front of me and I hand over a twenty-dollar bill. When he slides back my change, I throw some in the tip jar. The moment my hand lets go of the bills, the hairs on the back of my neck stand on end, a familiar sensation I now associate with Rueben.

“Why are we saying fuck Danny Ohara?” he whispers, his warm breath tickling my ear as he presses his front to my back.

A familiar tingle courses through my veins as his hands snake around my body and rest on my stomach. He applies just enough pressure to hold me against him, my body feeling every ripple of his, the hardness between his legs. I gasp, the words to answer his question gone for good.

“Crick?” he whispers, his lips grazing over my sensitive earlobe.

“What?”

“What did he do?”

“It’s not so much what he did say as what he was going to,” I tell him. When he lightens his hold, I slowly spin around and gaze up at his dark eyes.

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