Demon Kissed - Katie May Page 0,49

do want to drive it home.

“Does she have a name?” My eyes flicker to the enticing red button mocking me. Fuck, I really, really, really want to push it. Just one little push. One teeny, tiny little push.

For the second time tonight, Zolroth’s face turns bright scarlet.

“Icalerkat.”

“Huh?”

He clears his throat uncomfortably as we merge into traffic. “I call her, um, Cat.”

“Cat like meow, or Kat like a girl’s name?” I turn in my seat to face him completely, but his eyes remain fixated pointedly on the road.

“Thesecone.” He speaks so quickly, the words blend together.

“What?”

“The second one,” he admits in a rush, and my heart tap-dances in my chest. He named his car, this glorious beauty of orgasmic proportions, after me? Or after a different girl named Kat?

And why does that thought send a shot of jealous indignation straight to my heart? I ignore the unbridled rage that swarms through me like I’ve kicked over an angry hornet’s nest. Nope. Not doing that today, thank you very much. I’m going to pretend he named this beauty after me, though there’s no possible way, considering we just met… Still, delusions are nice.

Yup. I’m totally pretending this sexy car is named after me. Totally pretending this date is real. Damn. I don’t want to even think about what level of messed up that makes me.

“Where exactly are we going?” I query, pressing my palms flush against the cold leather and caressing it like one would a lover. Yeah, I’m totally stealing this car as soon as this date is over. Zolroth can cry me a fucking river.

Raking a hand through his short-cropped hair, the posh demon grins. “We’re going bowling.”

16

The bowling alley—or BAS (Bowling Athletic Shop) for short—is located only fifteen minutes away from my house. When we pull into the parking lot, I’m unsurprised that it’s already crowded, people teeming in and out of the modestly-sized building. It’s only one level with a fading sign that displays a smiling red bowling ball barreling into ten terrified pins. The slogan “Ram Those Pins” is displayed in fluorescent lights over the dilapidated sign.

There are very, very few things you can do for a date in our small town. We have a movie theater, of course, and a miniature golf course, but the bowling alley is by far the most popular location, mainly because it’s not merely bowling. It serves shitty, plastic-tasting pizza and beer, and it has an arcade as well as a section with escape rooms that cost an arm and a leg to attend. It’s also located a few miles away from the high school, making it a prime location for unruly teens to gather after school.

When we enter, I’m instantly barraged by the scent of stale sweat and alcohol. Almost every lane is full; I spot numerous families, a few bowling groups, and more than five various school groups. And there, giggling amongst themselves, are William Washington and Janie St. James.

Jealousy plows into me like a ram charging at full speed. I couldn’t possibly escape the emotion, even if I wanted to. It commands my complete and utter attention, momentarily keeping my feet cemented to the ground.

All I can do is stare at William as he tenderly brushes a string of Janie’s bleached blonde hair behind her ear. She giggles, the sound curling around me like a tightening leash, and he smiles cheekily at her, flashing her his adorable, sexy, wonderful, beautiful, hot, amazing, lickable dimples.

Have I ever mentioned that I really, really like dimples?

“I don’t think I can do this,” I whimper as pain unfurls in my chest like a pesky weed, destroying everything that was once beautiful. The feelings I had in the car on the way here, the feelings I momentarily felt for Zolroth, dissipate at the overwhelming tidal wave of pain.

Because, fuck, my heart is breaking into thousands of delicate shards, and I’m not sure anything—or anyone—is capable of gluing them back together.

Zolroth, looking completely out of place in his suit, drapes an arm over my shoulder. The weight of it shouldn’t feel as comforting as it does. Why do I have the irresistible urge to nestle against him, to burrow into his side until you can’t discern where he ends and I begin?

I blame it on the car. My panties are still slightly damp from that bad bitch.

“You got this,” he whispers in my ear. This close, I can’t help but note that he smells distinctly like cinnamon. It’s such an odd smell on a