Hate the Game - Winter Renshaw Page 0,17

challenge myself to meet his accusatory stare, to own my stance. “I told you earlier … you have a reputation. I’ve heard girls talk about hooking up with you. I’ve heard about the way you treat anyone who so much as thinks they might have a chance with you. Forgive me if I’m trying to steer clear of your warpath.”

“Irie, you are the reason for that warpath,” he says, his tone callous and his jaw flexing.

“So I’m supposed to be flattered? You treat other girls like crap because they’re not me? Is that what you’re trying to say?”

“You’re oversimplifying.”

“Am I though?” I angle my head to the side, my mouth twisted as I fight a smirk. Maybe I’m flirting. Maybe I’m also making a point.

Talon is looking at me like he’s two seconds from devouring me—my mouth specifically. His tongue wets his full lips and his left hand tightens at his sides, like he has to refrain from allowing himself to touch me.

There’s a lot of clout standing before me.

An insane amount of restraint.

He’s mere inches from the only thing he wants—the only conquest he can’t have—and it’s physically torturing him.

To wield this kind of control over someone so powerful is a sensation unlike any I’ve experienced before … and in an unexpected turn of events, my nipples harden, my sex tingles, and my lips swell with a curious ache.

In my defense, I’m not normally aroused by torturing people.

In his defense, he’s not normally used to reoccurring rejection.

This is quite the standoff we have going.

“Where are you going?” he asks.

I look him up and down. “In.”

“You cold?”

He’s standing here in a gray V-neck t-shirt and ripped jeans. He has nothing to offer me but his arms and as cold as it is tonight, it’s tempting.

But I won’t let it get to that.

I climb the top stair step and make my way across the deck, walking backwards as my hands clasp. “Go have fun, Talon. It’s a Saturday night. Do some body shots. Find a pretty little sorority girl and give her a night to remember. You’re wasting your time with me.”

I head back into the house before he has a chance to speak. Once in, I take a White Claw from the now semi-organized kitchen counter and follow the music, disappearing into some room with a sound system so loud it drowns out every last thought in my head—which is a good thing.

Because all of my thoughts?

They’re about him.

Chapter 8

Talon

I lean against the wooden railing of the deck, watching the party house swallow Irie up as she heads in. Exhaling, my breath turns to clouds. No wonder no one’s outside tonight. It’s cold as fuck. Sitting next to her for the past twenty minutes, I’ve been so transfixed I haven’t given the temperature a second thought.

The music pumps from inside, the pulsing baseline of some Avicii song rattling the windows every four seconds. I’m going to have to head in. I’m going to have to slap on a shitfaced grin, pretend there’s nowhere else I’d rather be, and act like I’m not searching for Irie every time a pretty girl struts by.

Scraping my ego off the floor, I make my way inside, which now feels like a goddamned sauna. There are easily twice as many drunk bastards as there was before and it’s so fucking loud I can’t hear myself think—which is probably a good thing.

I grab a can of Miller Lite from the fridge since the ones on the counter are lukewarm. God forbid one of these pricks spends Daddy’s money on a bag of ice to turn the sink into a cooler trough.

Amateurs.

Pulling the tab, I lift the can to my mouth and finish the beer in three swigs before deciding to follow it up with another.

“Whoa, dude, take it easy.” Vin appears out of nowhere, slapping my back with a thick palm. “The night is young, my friend.”

“No shit, moron. Gotta get this party started.” I chug the second beer like a fucking man on a mission before grabbing a third—though this one will be more of a prop. I don’t want to get sloppy drunk because that’s a rookie move and no one ever looks good falling down and knocking into people. Besides, the last thing I need are four-hundred eighty-eight pics of myself shitfaced all over social media.

I’ve got a reputation to uphold.

Vin chuckles before plucking a room-temperature Corona from the counter. A second later, a pack of collar-popped guys come in, cases of Busch