Hell to the mother-fucking no.
I guide Harlow around me and lean down as she slides into the booth.
She is still looking at him.
“Do you want me to commit murder?” I ask, whispering the question in her ear.
She startles, yelps, and turns to me, in that order.
“W…what?” she asks.
“Do you want me to commit murder?” I cock my head.
Her eyes narrow, and I know she knows what I’m talking about, but apparently, she’s going to make me say it.
“Because,” I gesture lazily at Gabriel who winks at us from the counter—the fucker—“if so, keep looking at him like he’s a human ken doll. That’s definitely how you can make me commit murder.”
Harlow snorts as I slide into the opposite side of the booth and our waitress appears, a plump, middle-aged red-head named Betty, who knows my order by heart.
“What’ll you have, sugar cubes?” Betty asks in her smoker’s voice.
Harlow grabs a laminated menu from behind the napkin dispenser and looks at it hurriedly.
“Trust me?” I ask her.
The menu’s got about a thousand options, all written in eight-point font. She looks up at me and nods.
“She’ll have a famous Dave’s burger, an order of fries, and a coke,” I tell Betty.
“And a slice of pepperoni pizza,” Harlow chimes in.
I look at her with my best insouciant expression and raise an eyebrow.
Harlow breathes in deeply and tilts her nose like she’s a puppy. “I can smell it from here.” She nods to the turnstile on the counter rotating to show all the fresh pies.
“You smell Dave’s famous burgers,” I say.
Our bickering doesn’t even faze Betty, who asks. “No milkshakes?”
Harlow’s eyes go wide. “Do you have strawberry?”
“Sure do, sugar,” Betty says before she writes it down.
Betty looks at me. “The usual?”
I nod. As Betty leaves with our order, I look over at Harlow. God, she looks like a dream in that black sweater-dress she’s wearing. It matches that defiant lock of hair by her temple perfectly.
“I thought you were going to trust me?” I say.
I don’t really give a shit about the order, but I do love watching her squirm. My cock sure enjoys the show too.
“I did trust you.” She shrugs and pats the table like she’s trying to test its sturdiness or something. “I’ll try a burger.”
I don’t reply. I just stare at her. I do it to the guys sometimes. Archie hates when I do it. He normally spills his guts in five seconds flat before cursing my existence.
The table must meet Harlow’s expectations because she looks up at me finally and meets my stare. We sit there, staring at each other. My eyes are starting to water, and I’m really hoping she’ll just give up when she tilts her head like she’s studying me and grumbles, “You are so intense.”
It sounds like a criticism, but I smirk regardless. I don’t say anything and she fills the silence.
“You should come with a poison control warning, Ian Beckett, because you can only be taken in small doses.”
“Nothing about me is small, Harlow.”
She rolls her eyes even though warmth spreads across her cheeks.
“Bigger isn’t always better,” she quips. “Maybe your fancy car is making up for something.”
I stop breathing and lean across the table at her, my palms pressed flat.
“If you keep looking at me like that, I’ll prove it to you.”
“Like what?” she says.
“Like you want me to fuck you,” I hiss. “We’re in a public place, Harlow. I’m fairly certain they frown on that sort of thing.”
Her eyes snap wide. “I…I…This is what I’m talking about!”
I crack a smile as Betty arrives with our food. It smells like grease and sugar and fucking delicious.
I take a huge bite of my burger. Two bites in, I look over at her, and I freeze, third-bite mid-way to my mouth.
“What is that?” I ask.
“Hmm?” She’s not looking at me. She’s stabbing a bite of pizza with her fork.
“What are you doing?” I ask, watching her.
She has her strawberry milkshake in front of her. She’s taking her fork and knife, cutting off a bite of pizza, and then dipping it into her milkshake like it’s a tortilla chip.
“What?” she asks, still focused on the pizza and acting like what she is doing is completely normal. She looks up at me and notes my horrified expression. “What? I like a little sweet with my salty, sort of like you.”
I grimace. My tongue wants to go hide from the sight of this.
“That’s gross,” I say, wrinkling my nose. “Not only are you ruining the milkshake, but you’re also ruining the pizza.”
She laughs and does it again.
“You’re the weird one, Beckett,” she tilts her head at my milkshake. “Who orders a vanilla milkshake? That’s the most boring flavor there is.”
“Don’t worry, sweetness,” I say, taking a sip. “There’s nothing vanilla about the things I plan to do with you.”
She coughs on her milkshake and sputtering, grabs a napkin. I grin and rip another bite from my burger.
30
Ian
I am leaving Microeconomics, my backpack slung over one shoulder. I’m wearing my red-and-black Nike Airs with a pair of jeans and a regulation-approved white button-down. Everything but my shirt is completely against dress code, but no one says a thing. Hell, last period, Dr. Anders complimented my taste.
It’s game day, and Voclain only cares about one thing on game day: that I bring home the win.
Audrey Murphy winks at me as I pass her locker, but I don’t reciprocate. I’m not intentionally trying to be an asshole, but she’s still hung up on the fact that I let her go down on me two summers ago. I don’t want to give her false hope.
“Hey, QB.” My alternate linebacker grabs my shoulder and squeezes hard. He always greets me the same way, and I bury the urge
