13. Violet

13

Violet

S waying back and forth on the dance floor, my body tells me I’m drunk. This might be the best night of my life. After two shots of tequila and two vodka sodas, within two hours, I’m trashed. Liza and I have been dancing for a while, and I don’t want to stop. Every song is my favorite. The only downside about this bar is how hot it is with so many people crammed into a tiny space. Liza and I throw our hair up and tie our oversized football jerseys above our stomachs to keep cool.

I never knew how much I needed a female friend like Liza before tonight. She makes everything more exciting, and she’s the perfect dance partner. When we’re dancing together, we don’t have to worry about creepy guys approaching us. Liza taught me how to twerk, and she said I’m a natural, so that’s my new go-to move.

Liza leans in and says, “SOS. Your chiseled football hottie is behind us and wants to go somewhere quieter to talk. Let’s go.”

She’s so excited, but I’m not ready to stop dancing, so I glance behind me and shake my head no. Dang, he looks good, but his ego can take a hit. He’s in jeans and a tight gray shirt that frames his muscles. His hair glistens from the post-game shower. His beard is neatly trimmed, and his caramel eyes shoot daggers through me.

Liza laughs and replies, “Haha. He’ll just have to stay here with us then.”

She drags him closer until we are touching. We don’t have a choice. There isn’t much room to move. He looks uncomfortable on the dance floor with his hands in his pockets, and the way he isn’t moving to the music. Buzzkill.

I lean closer to him so he can hear me, “You know you are allowed to quit brooding and dance, right?” I playfully touch his arm. The heat from his toned muscles ripples through my hand and down my body. His eyes lock with my hand, and carefully take in my body. No one has ever looked at me with this level of intensity. His eyes meet mine, but he isn’t smiling. His jaw is locked, and his muscles tense as he stretches his neck side to side. My hand hasn’t left his arm, and he hasn’t made an attempt to move it off.

He leans in so close that his lips touch my ear. His hot breath sends a shiver down my back, and goosebumps rise all over me. His big hands grip my waist, and unlike the party he kissed me at, he squeezes my hips confidently.

“You know, if you wanted a jersey, all you had to do was ask, baby.”

I remember that I’m wearing Locke’s jersey. Why does he care? He leans back just enough to see my entire face. My body is locked in with his, and I’m panting from his proximity. I can’t think straight. Not when the sexiest man in this bar is standing in front of me with his hands firmly gripping my waist and his lips dangerously close to mine. I need to answer him or kiss him. That’s the vodka talking…

“I’m wearing the jersey I want.” I tilt my head slightly and smirk with my arms crossed over my chest. Ryan is much taller than me, and his presence is overwhelming. Even over the strong stench of alcohol, I smell his deep woodsy scent.

“You’re killing me.” He groans and tilts his head back. Before I can answer, he spins me around and guides my waist to him, traveling his hands up and down my body from my waist to my stomach.

Higher, please.

I tilt my head back into his chest and let my body move with the music. My body responds to his touch and makes every decision for me. It’s not lost on me that everyone without a few feet shamelessly stare at Ryan and I. I’m not thinking about the consequences of the night or how he humiliated me with that text. Liza’s in front of me, giving the most embarrassing gestures of approval. She’s dancing with a group of girls I recognize from the back-to-school bash.

At the end of the song, his husky voice is in my ear again, “Come with me.”

He grabs my hand and firmly leads me off the dance floor to a less crowded area of the bar. I’m stumbling, and the room is spinning. I’m drunker than I thought. When we reach a place where I can hear him better, Ryan demands, “I need to know why you’re in that jersey, Violet.”

“Why do you care whose jersey I’m wearing?” I sass. I’m genuinely confused as to why this is the main topic of discussion tonight. Can he just stop talking and go back to holding me?

“It bothers me,” he says.

“Does it only bother you that it’s Locke’s jersey?”

“Yes.”

Between this jersey situation and truth or dare, I’m tired of getting in the middle of whatever issue Ryan has with Locke. His emotional whiplash is exhausting.

“Liza and I switched, ok? It’s not a big deal,” I answer.

“It’s a big deal to me.”

“Ok. Then give me a reason not to wear it.” Violet Evans, is that you or the liquor talking?

“Because Locke doesn’t deserve to have you wear his number, but keep it on if you want,” he says with a hint of anger and possessiveness in his voice.

My stomach flutters without permission. I turn to walk away because I’m beyond confused by his back and forth. I’m wasted and want to dance with my friend. I should have never danced with him or walked away from Liza. He took an ego hit when he saw me in Locke’s jersey and not his, the same way he intercepted our kiss at the party. If this is a point he needs to prove to himself that he can beat Locke, I won’t be the one he uses to prove it, nor will I be used by either of those two to assert their dominance over one another. I faintly hear him calling my name, but Raise Your Glass by P!nk just started, and I’m ready to dance.