Lines of Defense

Ch. 22

ETHAN COLE

Those words—It meant nothing. I'll let him fuck me every which way in front of you—keep circling in my head, refusing to let go. They sting like salt in a wound I didn't realize was this raw. I tilt back another glass, not even counting anymore. The burn isn't strong enough to drown her voice, and when I glance up, Yvette's studying me, her dark eyes searching for something. Maybe it's obvious that I'm a wreck tonight.

She perches on the barstool beside me, shifting slightly so her legs brush against mine. The shortness of her top and the lack of coverage from her shorts don't leave much to guesswork. I glance at her, noting her warm skin under the dim lights, the shape of her body, the curve of her smile. It's all so simple. And maybe that's what I need tonight—something simple.

"Something bothering you?" she asks, leaning in, but her eyes read me like an open book.

I don't respond. I just gesture to the bartender, barely looking as he pours another drink. I lift it halfway to my mouth, ready for that momentary burn and escape—but Yvette reaches over, plucking it from my fingers before I can react, tossing it back like she's done it a hundred times before.

"You've had enough," she says, smirking as she sets the glass back down, but her voice holds a challenge. "Besides... I can think of better ways to handle whatever's haunting you."

She waits, her eyes never leaving mine. My focus dips on her neckline, trailing over the way her shirt clings to her. It's a distraction—one I'd usually never even consider, but tonight...

"Want to fuck this sadness out?" she asks bluntly, a dark edge to her tone. Her forwardness pulls me from my haze for a second, and I just nod. Fuck, if nothing else, it'll keep those words from Amelia out of my mind. At least, I hope so.

Yvette flashes a knowing smile, grabbing my hand and tugging me off the barstool. "There's a room in the back," she says whispers as she leads me down the narrow hallway, her hips swaying with each step. The lights get dimmer, and my steps are a bit too heavy, the alcohol swimming in my veins, distorting the edges of things. The neon lights bleed across the walls, casting long, blurred shadows, and the pounding bass from the bar is muffled but still thrumming beneath my feet.

Yvette stops at a door at the end of the hall, her hand twisting the handle before she pulls me inside. She turns, her eyes smoldering as she closes the door and presses me back against it, her hands moving over me with purpose. Her lips find mine, tasting like the remnants of tequila and cherry gloss, urgent and needy.

My hands respond on instinct, skimming down her back, feeling the curve of her waist as she presses herself closer. Her skin is warm under my fingers, her breaths shallow as I run my hands over her, searching for something to hold on to. She lets out a low, satisfied hum as my hands move up, cupping her breasts in my palms, feeling the softness there, the way she responds instantly. Her lips part, and she whispers, "Forget her. She's not worth this."

The words are a balm to my bruised ego, yet they barely register. Amelia's words are still in my mind, a constant reminder that whatever I felt last night, it wasn't mutual.

_______

My fingers slide over the last few pages, ensuring the NDA contracts are exactly how Freeman wanted. The print ink is crisp, signatures spaced perfectly, and I lean back, taking in the sharp satisfaction of a job well done. With a quick swipe, I grab my phone, dialing Freeman's secretary.

"Contracts are ready," I say, keeping it brief.

On the other end, his secretary responds quickly, "Perfect. Where would you like me to collect them?"