Hate the Game - Winter Renshaw Page 0,19
needed was some drunk bastard interrupting them.
I head out the front door and tug it closed, stepping outside to let the brisk air slap some sense into me. I exhale a clouded breath and head to the porch swing to my left—only it’s occupied.
“Irie,” I say when I see the unmistakable outline of her face in the dim night. She’s illuminated by street lights and the glow of the garage lights, but it’s her.
This time I’m fucking certain.
“How long have you been out here?” I ask. It feels like forever ago we were sitting out back, having a talk before going our separate ways, but for all I know that was ten minutes ago. My concept of time always gets glitchy when I’ve been drinking.
“Not long,” she says, nodding toward the street. “Just waiting for the bus.”
“You’re leaving?”
“Yep.”
I check the time on my phone. “It’s only ten.”
“And your point?” She half laughs through her nose before scooting over and making room for me on the porch. “Why aren’t you inside? I saw they were passing out tequila shots a little bit ago.”
How I missed her walking past the main room, I’m not sure.
“Looked like you were having a good time,” she says. “Taking selfies and whatnot …”
I roll my eyes as I take the spot beside her. The chair swings back with my weight and I lean my arm over her lap, grabbing the arm rest to brace myself while also making sure she doesn’t topple out. Not that she would. She isn’t shitfaced like me.
“What are you going to do the rest of the night?” I ask.
“Going to bed,” she says. “Nothing that would excite you.”
“Now that’s where you’re wrong.”
“Going to bed excites you?”
“You plus a bed excites me,” I say, accidentally slurring.
Irie tilts her head. “If you’re trying to be smooth, I have to be honest, Talon, it’s not going well for you.”
I drag in a long, icy breath and let it go before smirking. “Appreciate the honesty. Liquid confidence is a hell of a thing.”
“How much have you had to drink tonight? Besides the tequila shot, I mean. You weren’t this drunk twenty minutes ago when we were out back.”
It’s only been twenty minutes?
I was way off.
“A couple of beers,” I say. The can of Miller Lite in my hand is still full, verging on room temperature now. I might as well dump it. The only thing worse than warm alcohol is … being rejected by Irie Davenport. “What is it about me that repulses you?”
Irie’s gaze snaps to mine and she begins to cough, choking on her spit. “What? I never said I was repulsed by you.”
“What is it about me that sends you running?”
“Everything,” she answers without hesitation. “What is it about me that makes you so relentless?”
“Everything.”
Irie shakes her head, turning away so I can’t see her expression. I don’t know if she’s flattered or frustrated. I also don’t know if I’m sober enough to tell the difference.
“My entire life, I’ve never been allowed to accept failure,” I tell her. “It’s not an option. You try or you die trying. Those are the only options.”
“So you’re going to die trying to hook up with me?” she asks, a hint of sarcasm in her voice.
“I’m not good at giving up, Irie,” I say. “I’ve never worked my ass off for something and then walked way without it. I’m not a quitter. I literally don’t know how to quit.”
“Then you should try,” she says, matter of fact. “Try to learn how to quit.”
It takes everything I have not to kiss that smart mouth of hers, but I know what she’s saying. She has a point—one that I’m not ready to acknowledge.
“This isn’t a game to me,” she tells me.
“It isn’t a game to me either.”
“Then why does it feel that way? Why does it feel like I’m being hunted for sport?” Her eyes rest deep on mine.
“First time I saw you, we were at a house party. Freshman year. Second weekend in October. You were wearing this white sleeveless dress with buttons down the front,” I say. “It stopped a few inches above your knees. And you had these strappy sandals—tan leather, I think they were. Your hair was all the way down your back, stick straight. Bounced when you walked. And you had this wet, glossy pout that just …” I bite my lower lip, my mouth watering just thinking about the archived image in my head.
“Why are you telling me this?”
“I’m just saying, the