it takes to get him to walk away.
He’s not going to waste his time and energy if he won’t be reaping those rewards later tonight.
As soon as he’s gone, Brighton flicks my arm off of her.
“You can thank me later,” I tell her with a wink.
Her full lips press flat and she shakes her head before taking a sip of beer. “You’re such a jerk.”
“I was doing you a favor.”
“You were acting like a territorial alley cat,” she says. “I was having a nice conversation and you pissed all over it.”
“Right. But did you notice as soon as he thought we were together, he walked away without so much as a goodbye? He wasn’t interested in you, Brighton. Just the possibility of fucking you.”
She’s quiet now, which I interpret as a sign that she knows I’m right.
“Would that bother you?” she asks. “If I slept with someone else?”
I scoff, lifting my bottle to my lips. “Of course it would.”
“But we’re not together.”
“I know that,” I take a drink. “I’m just not into the whole sharing thing. If I’m fucking you, you’re fucking me and neither one of us are fucking anyone else.”
“That sounds like a relationship to me,” she says. “Thought you didn’t do relationships and dating and all that bullshit.”
She lifts her fingers, air-quoting the word, “bullshit.”
“You can’t have it both ways,” she says.
“So you’re saying if I want you to sleep with me exclusively, you want me to be your boyfriend?”
Part of me thinks she’s messing with me, trying to point out the fallacies and loopholes in my self-made clauses. The other part of me doesn’t want to call her bluff.
As much as I don’t want to be anyone’s boyfriend, as much as I loathe the entire concept of dating and relationships, the idea of Brighton giving another guy those sparkling hazel eyes, those pillow-soft lips, those long legs and dangerous curves makes me see red for half a second.
The mental image of Brighton's arms draped over Cash, of Cash’s hands exploring her body, plagues me for a moment, sending a boil to my blood, but I shake it off, down the rest of my beer, and slip my hand into hers.
Leading her out of the living room, she asks, “Where are we going?”
“Back to my place.”
Brighton digs her heels into the ground and wrenches her hand from mine. “Maybe I don’t want to go yet. Maybe I’m having a nice time and I’m not ready.”
I get it.
She wants to assert her autonomy and not let some jackass tell her what to do since everyone’s been telling her what to do her entire life.
But I’ll be damned if I sit around here another couple of hours, watching these other jackasses look at her like she’s ripe for the picking.
“Come on. Let’s go.” I wave for her to follow me.
She stays put.
“Brighton,” I say.
Her arms fold across her chest. “Madden.”
There’s a rare, devious glint in her eyes. “Say it.”
“Say what?” I scoff.
“You’re jealous,” she says. “You’re jealous because I was talking to someone else. And that means you like me.”
“Can we not?”
“Oh, but we must. I’m not leaving until we do.” She fights a chuckle. Good to know at least one of us is enjoying this shit show.
“Just tell me what you want me to say.” I throw my hands in the air. “Because the sooner I say it, the sooner I can get you home and do the kind of things I refuse to let another man … like fucking Cash … so much as think about doing to you.”
Brighton’s expression morphs from ornery to satisfied and she all but lunges for me, jumping into my arms.
“You so like me, Ransom,” she says as I carry her back to my GTO. “It’s okay if you can’t admit it yet.”
Yet.
Even if I did like her, I’d never admit it to anyone.
Not her.
Not even myself.
Twenty-Three
Brighton
* * *
I’m surprised he’s letting me lay in the crook of his shoulder. We’re technically cuddling, but I don’t dare point it out. I wouldn’t want to spook him. God forbid he actually accepts the fact that he likes this.
Madden’s fingertips graze the bare skin of my arm as we bask in our respective afterglows.
Sometimes he looks at me a certain way or says a certain thing that makes me think he’s not as cold and callous as he claims to be. There’s a softer side to him, it’s just buried beneath years of emotional armor and battle scars.
His hand moves lower, just beneath my