Fake Shot (Boston Rebels Book 2)

Jules has her head tucked into me, like she’s trying to hide her face in my side as I steer her toward the doors of the restaurant. I can feel her shaking against me, so I glance over my shoulder, and that asshole she was with is pulling his wallet out like he’s in a rush to pay so he can follow us.

I have no intention of letting him talk to Jules. Ever. So the minute we hit the warm outdoor air, I’m steering her around the corner of the building and into the narrow alley that runs alongside the restaurant.

When I guide her to the brick wall, she leans her shoulders back against it. Her chest is rising and falling quickly, her breath coming out in short pants like she can’t quite get oxygen as she looks up at me with glassy eyes.

“Breathe, Tink.”

Being as gentle as I can, I take the wrist that asshole grabbed and turn it over between my fingers, searching for any signs of an injury. Aside from some redness in the area, which will probably turn to a bruise tomorrow, she looks like she’s okay. My eyes skim along her upper body on the way to her face. Her chest is no longer rising and falling rapidly. In fact, it’s like she’s not breathing at all.

“What’s wrong?” I ask. Is this fear? Is she hurt? Is she pissed at me?

Her full pink lips part, but no sound comes out, and she’s still not breathing. I plant one hand on the brick wall behind her and lean down so we’re face to face. I’m trying to ignore the way her porcelain skin is glowing from the floodlights above us, the way her high cheekbones are edged in pink above her sharp jawline, the way her incredibly full lips are glossy like she just licked them, and the way her head, tilted back against the brick, leaves the long column of her neck exposed. She smells and looks like dessert.

“Hey, I’m going to need you to take a breath before you pass out.”

Nothing. No inhale, no sigh, no sign that she even heard me except for the way her eyes widen as she gazes up at my face.

Just then, I hear her name being called from the street. Her breath is a sharp gasp—at least she’s fucking breathing now—as we both turn our heads in the direction of the sound. The asshat from the restaurant hasn’t seen us yet, so I bring my hand up to the side of her face and guide her head back so she’s looking at me.

“I’m about to do something we’re both going to regret,” I tell her, “but it’s the only way he’s not going to try to talk to you right now and the only thing that will prevent me from killing him. Try to sell it, okay?”

Then my mouth is descending on hers, and to my surprise there’s only the briefest moment of hesitation on her part before she’s wrapping her arms around my neck and opening her lips for me, pulling my lower lip between her teeth, and sucking it into her mouth.

My body presses forward, anchoring her between me and that brick wall, and the low groan that slips out of her throat reverberates between us. It should be the wake-up call I need—the warning signal that I’m about to cross a line I can’t come back from. Instead, it’s the spark that lights a fire I have no desire to put out.

Because Jules Flynn isn’t kissing me, she’s devouring me—fucking my mouth so thoroughly that I’m pretty sure I’ll never again want to kiss anyone but her.

My fingers dig into her hips, pulling her toward me even as my body pushes her into that wall, and then I’m sliding both my hands around her, cupping her ass and lifting. She tightens her arms around my neck, bringing her legs up and wrapping them around my hips, pulling me tight against her center. And the feel of my cock pressed between us has me hard and aching for her, my hips instinctively moving forward to create the friction we both need.

Her hum of approval reverberates through us both, fueling that fire. I’m acting on instinct rather than logic as I stand in this alley with Jules wrapped around me, practically dry humping her up against a wall. And I have no intention of stopping.

I bring one hand up to her face, tracing the line of her jaw with my thumb as my fingers work their way into the hair at the base of her head. Until now, I’ve never felt like I’m not in charge when it comes to sex. But there is no doubt in my mind that, in this moment, Jules owns me, and I’d gladly give her anything she wanted.

Legs tightening around my waist, she slides her center along me. My fingers tighten on her ass in response, and more than anything in the world, I want to remove the clothes that stand between us.

And then I hear, “Put the fucking phone away,” and I pull back from Jules, glancing over to the street as Zach stands there waving his arms in front of three people who were just watching me making out with my roommate. My best friend’s little sister. The one person I absolutely should not ever even think about touching.

And I just did so much more than think about it.

I rest my forehead against hers. “Fuck. Jules, I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean to . . .  It didn’t mean anything.”

I can’t figure out exactly what the sound she makes is, but then she’s dropping her feet to the ground and turning her head away, tucking her chin against her shoulder so she can’t be seen from the street, or so that I can’t see her face. It worries me that I can’t tell which.

“Moving right along,” Zach says, his arms spread wide as he ushers the three kids away, putting the corner of the building in between us and them. Thank God they weren’t close enough to see my face or tell who I was.

“Hey, aren’t you a hockey player?” one of them asks Zach, and I can tell he is drawing them farther away because their conversation fades. He’s giving us the space to get out of here unseen, and I owe him, big time.

I look down at Jules, but that’s a mistake. She’s looking at the ground, and from this angle, all I see are the pink apples of her cheeks. I don’t know if she’s angry or embarrassed, but either way, I know I stepped over the line and fucked up.

Her chest is heaving as she takes big gulps of air, and I’m halfway afraid she’s going to break down again if we don’t get moving. I nod toward the entrance to the alley. “Let’s go.”

When we get to the street, I place my hand on her lower back to guide her to the inside of the sidewalk, leading her away from the restaurant in the opposite direction as Zach headed with those kids.

We walk in silence for a few blocks; the easy banter we normally fall into is gone and so is the heat from the alley. Instead, she looks straight ahead, shoulders squared, never once glancing at me as I walk next to her trying to figure out what to say.

We’re all the way back to the South End before I get the nerve to ask her if she’s okay.

“I’m fine.” The words are clipped, and I know she’s not fine, because if she was, she’d have a snarky comeback.

“Can we talk about what just happened?” I ask, glancing over to gauge how she’s feeling.

“Let’s not,” she mutters. “In fact, let’s never speak of it again.”

“Jules.” Her name is an apology and a plea. There aren’t many people in this world whose opinion of me I truly value, but hers has become one of them. Over the past few days, I’ve opened up to her in ways I’ve never opened up to anyone else. And I don’t want to lose that. I don’t want to go back to exchanging nothing but snarky comments—though the longer she’s silent, the more I’d be willing to accept even a return to that.

When we arrive at the tall stone steps of her brownstone, she says, “I’m going up to change. I’ll see you tomorrow.”

“Jules, can’t we talk⁠—”

“No.”

I think about what Jameson said earlier today, about how if I’d really pissed Jules off, I’d know it. Her icy demeanor and sharp refusal to have a conversation about this is all the confirmation that I need: I’ve stepped over a line, made her uncomfortable, and screwed this all up.

My friendship with Jules is going to be forever strained, and my living situation is about to get really complicated. What felt like the right thing to do, especially with the way she’d reacted the minute our lips touched, was obviously the wrong thing in the end.

I stand on the sidewalk, trying not to focus on the way her skin-tight pants hug her muscular calves as she walks up those stairs to the front door. I don’t want to crowd her, or for her to feel like I’m invading her space, so I hang back. Watching the door click behind her, I take a seat on the stone steps, still warm from today’s heat, and pull my phone out of my pocket.

I sit there scrolling through social media for so long I lose track of time. Finally, I’m about to get up and go inside, when my screen lights up with a text.

Zach

Call me.