Night Games (The Storm Inside #6) Page 4

  And today I needed that guy to hear what I was about to say.

  “What did you do this time, Wes?” Roman sighed as he shut his office door and shot me a look.

  I resented the exhaustion in his voice. “What makes you think I did something? Maybe I just really wanted to see you.”

  He folded his arms over his chest and cocked an eyebrow. “In Tampa? You just spent two days in Vegas. You should be with the team.”

  I hated when he was logical and shit. “Okay. I did do something. In Vegas. But it’s not bad. I’m not here because I need you to clean up my mess.”

  “Then why are you here?” He dropped into his plush desk chair and for two seconds I stopped thinking about myself long enough to notice that Roman looked stressed.

  “I may have gotten married.”

  Roman turned really, really white. “You what?”

  I cleared my throat. “Got married. In Vegas. Same day as you, actually.” Then I realized exactly how dumb that sounded and scrubbed my face with my hands. “Apparently I have to do everything you do.” Like a tool.

  Except it had absolutely nothing to do with Roman and June. God, I hadn’t even thought about them after they left the luncheon. All I saw was Carrie and I let my drunken need to make her mine take over.

  And married her.

  Now that I was home, sober and thinking it through, this was sounding more and more insane. Like I was a kid who didn’t want his toy taken away so I acted out to get my way.

  No wonder Carrie had that look in her eyes.

  “Back up,” Roman sighed. “Start over at the beginning. Who are you married to?”

  “The important thing to understand is that I do actually love her. Yes, it was rash and partially fueled by alcohol, but I love her.”

  “The way you’re talking . . . Wes, you make it sound like you married my sister. Except I don’t have a sister. What did you do?”

  There was really no way to make this any easier so I just said it. “I married Carrie.”

  Roman made a move like he was going to strangle me—which I totally didn’t blame him for—then sat there frozen for a good twenty seconds before he gritted out. “You married Carrie Anne?”

  “Carrie.” It irked me that Roman didn’t seem to realize she only went by her full first name when she was invoking her southern roots or playing someone. Otherwise she hated being called by both names. “And yes.”

  He blinked several times as if he were rewinding all my words in his head and studying them one at a time. “Wait . . . why do you think you love her?”

  Yep, there it was. This was the part I didn’t want to go through. Love, Wes? Really. You love love, but you don’t fall in love.

  “Because I don’t want to let her go.”

  Roman shot up out of his chair and it rolled backward until it hit the wall and then bounced back. “That’s not love, Wes. That’s,” he waved his hands through the air, “that’s want.”

  I rolled my eyes. “I know the difference. I’ve wanted a lot of women and I haven’t really cared when they left me.” Because they almost always left me. There was probably something to that, now that I thought about it. “But when Carrie left me I missed her a whole hell of a lot. And, I might add, I didn’t want her to leave in the first place.”

  I never technically acknowledged our breakup. Mostly because my brain stopped working the moment the words came out of her mouth, and I was fairly certain it hadn’t started working again until the morning we woke up as husband and wife.

  “Missing someone is still not loving someone. Loving someone involves commitment and,” he looked me dead in the eye, “sticking around through the shit for the rest of her life.”

  Now I was starting to get pissed. “Fuck you, Roman. I’m not two. I know what marriage is and I have no intention of hurting her . . . if she’ll stay married to me.”

  His eyes bugged out of his head. “You—” He held up his hand. “You—” Then he put his hand over his mouth and made a high-pitched sound before dragging his hand down his chin. “You want to stay married?”

  “Did you not hear the part where I said I love her?”

  “I heard you say it, still haven’t heard you mean it.”

  I dropped into the chair that sat in front of his desk and sprawled out until I was somewhat comfortable. “I feel different than I’ve ever felt before when she’s around.”

  Roman paused and narrowed his eyes. “Go on.”

  “And I think,” I shrugged, “well, I think I see her in a way no one else sees her. When she’s gone it hurts.” I rubbed my chest over my heart. “In here, like it’s hollow or something. And when she’s close I feel goofier and happier than usual. I don’t want anyone else to have her because she’s mine.” I held up my hand. “And yes, I know that sounds dickish but it’s how I feel. She left me and I didn’t want to feel that shit anymore so when we were making out on the dance floor in Vegas I saw a chance to keep her and I took it like the asshole I am. And you know what? I do have a problem.”

  He gave me this amused, condescending look I wasn’t sure I liked. At all. “Now we’re getting somewhere. What’s your problem, Wes?”

  “I’m a dick and I’m not thinking straight. I need my best friend to help me be less of an asshole so I can convince the woman I love that we should be together.” That’s why I was there. Zoe could help me with the romantic shit, but who else could tell me when I was a jerk—in a way I’d actually understand. “Stop looking at me like that.”

  “Like what?”

  I kicked his desk. “Like you know something I don’t.”

  “That’s not what I’m thinking at all, actually.” Then he moved around the desk to lean against it, facing me. “I think you may be right. You sound like you might be in love after all.”

  I glanced up to find him grinning at me. “You’ve got that clown smile on your face again. What the fuck, dude?”

  “It’s just nice. For once, someone has your number. You’ve smiled and charmed your way out of situations no one else could have managed, but for once that smile and charm isn’t getting you anywhere. You’re going to have to get your shit together if you really want this, and that? That’s fucking entertaining.”

  5

  Carrie, six weeks earlier

  I walked into Blue Lagoon ready to conquer someone. And by someone I meant Wes Allen. I checked his Instagram account after work only to discover he was not only in Tampa for the weekend, but going out to the very same club my friends had already planned on visiting that night.

  A good friend would have kindly mentioned that information to her best friend, but I had a feeling if June knew there was a possibility Roman would be there, she’d chicken out and change venues. So I kept my trap shut and instead dressed to kill.

  The dress was a new favorite of mine. Conservative on top but incredibly, sinfully short. I kept my makeup conservative and my hair was down and tousled.

  All I had to do was wait, smile, and Wes would be mine. I’d take him home or let him take me back to his hotel, we’d have a wild night, and then I could finally stop thinking about him. With any luck he’d be terrible in bed and end my fascination once and for all.

  It confused the hell out of me that I wanted him so badly. Maybe if we’d met it would make some sense. I’d had some strong physical reactions to certain men in the past. But we’d never met. So why was he so deep under my skin?

  This was the mystery that fascinated me.

  One that would be solved very soon.

  Thank goodess.

  “Well aren’t you looking fabulous tonight?” I said.

  June was rocking a similarly short dress and looking amazing. Inside I did a happy dance. If Roman saw her in this he’d be a goner for sure. I wanted my friend to be happy. Ever since we met there was something sad about her I couldn’t explain. Not until Roman showed up. Realizing that she was still in love with him and that was where the sadness came from, it made me want to help her throu
gh this. I was pretty sure that was what friends did for each other.

  She blushed crimson. “Thank you. I’m getting used to it.”

  Why on earth would she need to get used to looking dropdead gorgeous? She needed to learn to own that shit. “Stop thinking about it and people watch with me instead.”

  “Is that how you do it?”

  “Do what?” I waved her over to a bench where we could sit with our wine and get a good view of the bar and dance floor all at once.

  “Walk around with so much confidence. No matter where you are, what you’re doing, or what you’re wearing, you’re confident, shoulders back, chin up, demanding everyone’s attention.”

  “Having their attention means I have their focus. And having their focus means I have control over them. I’m not always confident,” far from it, “but to get what I want, I have to stop caring what other people think of me.” Something I did a long, long time ago, thank fuck. Caring about the opinions of others was exhausting.

  “This is why I love you, Carrie. You and I are so incredibly different. I like seeing life through your eyes.”

  I bumped her shoulder. “Same. You remind me that caring doesn’t always have to suck.”

  She shook her head and sighed. “You’re something else.”

  That was my cue to dive into Roman. When he showed up I wanted to make sure she didn’t run the opposite direction. The man was just as—if not more—over the moon for her as she was for him.

  “Are you still mad at me?” At dinner the night before I may have gone a wee bit overboard trying to convince her that she obviously had serious feelings for her old college flame.

  “I’m not mad at you.”

  “Frustrated then?” I wouldn’t blame her one little bit. Frustration could be my middle name, according to my mother.

  “I’m not frustrated either,” she gulped some wine. “I was . . . flustered.”

  Bingo. She knew she still had the hots for him. She just wasn’t willing to admit it yet. “I can’t imagine why. Tell me, have you thought about him?”

  She mumbled into her wine, looking everywhere but at me.

  “So you get flustered when he’s around and can’t stop thinking about him. Plus he’s super sexy and seems very nice. Have a fling with him if nothing else.” When he walked up to our table at dinner the sparks were damn near blinding. Even I could see it.

  “I’ve had a fling with him.”

  A secret affair in college was so not a fling. “But did you?”

  She glared at me. “Yes! That’s exactly what six-ish weeks of banging is.”

  “Did you meet him at his place, fuck, and leave?” Exactly what I planned on doing with Wes tonight. That was a fling.

  “No.”

  “Then you didn’t just bang.”

  “Why do you care?” She slammed her wine down on the table, going from worked up to emotional in two seconds flat.

  “Don’t abuse the wine.” I gave her a second to calm down while I glanced around the bar, my heart stopping as my gaze fell on Wes. He walked up to the bar to order, scanning the room. The minute his eyes met mine a zing rocketed through me. He paused, almost as if he were as frozen in the moment as I was, then glanced at June, his eyes widening. He handed his credit card over to the bartender and made a line for us.

  It was go time.

  “I care because you’re my friend,” I said, “and you’re very obviously upset. Women get mad when they see an old flame that ended badly. You’re not mad, June.”

  “I’m mad.”

  “No you’re not. You might be a little mad but you’re mostly turned on.” Wes stopped in front of us and I swear the air changed. Like the eye of a hurricane, the chaos of the club seemed to disappear as an incredible stillness surrounded us.

  He was so much more in person. Handsome, yes. Cocky, absolutely. But there was an intangible quality to Wes Allen that could only be appreciated up close and personal. There was an energy to him. A warm, positive energy that charged the air and made my heart pump faster. He was happiness personified and it was infectious—and addictive—even in small doses. “Well, well, well,” I murmured. “What do we have here?”

  To my absolute delight his focus was on me before he glanced at my friend. “June, right?”

  She turned white—probably realizing that Roman was near. “Yes. I looked at your ankle.”

  He took her hand and bowed low, kissing it. “And apparently we went to college together even though I don’t remember it.”

  College small talk could wait for Roman. This was my turn. I grabbed her knee and squeezed.

  She winced, getting my message loud and clear. I’d probably pay for that later. “Wes, I’d like to introduce you to my friend, Carrie. She’s the team’s orthopedic surgeon.”

  His eyebrows rose as he turned his attention back to me, taking my breath. “A beautiful surgeon? How did I get so lucky?”

  “Buy me a drink and I’ll explain.”

  He didn’t hesitate, turning to the side to wave me to the bar. “I’m Wes, by the way. Wes Allen.”

  “Dr. Carrie Anne Walker.” I held out my hand, waiting, needing to know what it felt like to have his skin touch mine.

  “It’s nice to meet you, Doc.” The first touch jolted through my skin and as his hand closed around mine, the room swayed in the best possible way. It was like being instantaneously high from a simple touch. “You don’t mind me calling you that, do you?” His eyes danced. Like, actually danced. I’d never understood that term before but looking up into his baby blue eyes as they lit up and searched my face, crinkling at the corners because he was smiling so much, that was the only word that seemed to adequately describe what I was witnessing.

  “Sure. You can call me Doc.” The nickname had been tossed around a time or two but it never stuck. It usually had a generic quality to it, like the person using it couldn’t remember my name, but the way Wes said it? Well, it was very different. Like it was a title every bit as magical as Queen or Princess.

  He kept shaking my hand. Although it wasn’t much of a shake at this point. It was more like holding hands across from each other. “Oh no, that doesn’t sound good. What do your friends call you? Carrie or Carrie Anne?”

  I flinched like I always did when someone called me by my given name. “Carrie.”

  His expression didn’t dim one little bit at my harsh response. If anything it seemed to light him up even more. “Duly noted. I take it Carrie Anne is reserved for parents and grandparents?”

  How did he . . . ? “Yes.”

  “At home my aunt and my cousins are the only ones allowed to call me Wesley.”

  Like The Princess Bride. A much younger version of myself died a little bit inside and I secretly hoped one day I’d be able to whisper his full name and live out my first crush.

  “So you understand.”

  “I do,” he said. Then he turned to the nearest waitress, stopping her before she could blow past us with a tray of empty drinks. “Can we get two glasses of champagne?”

  “Champagne?” It was hard to picture such a manly man holding a tiny flute of bubbling alcohol.

  “Sure. Why not? I feel like celebrating.”

  Did he ever stop smiling? Was he always this happy? It didn’t seem possible for any person to have this much energy.

  “What are we celebrating?”

  “Us.” His eyes searched mine, looking for something. Whatever it was, I didn’t want him to stop. Having his attention felt like standing in the sun after a cold day.

  “We’re celebrating meeting?”

  He leaned closer. Close enough that his body warmed mine and his breath danced along the exposed skin of my shoulder. “Life is hard enough all on its own. I say we celebrate every chance we get.” Then he leaned back just enough to look into my eyes. “Meeting you is definitely worth celebrating.”

  He was good. Damn, he was good. No wonder he had a harem of women swooning in his wake. Hell, I was swooning and I n
ever swooned. That was part of his charm, I think. I could have sworn he meant every single word. And more than that, I would have bet money I was the first and only woman he’d said it to.

  So it was a good thing I knew I was playing with fire.

  “I bet you say that to all your conquests.”

  The warmth in his gaze disappeared in an instant, his entire face shuttering. “And I’m sure you keep all the men bowing at your feet.”

  Cold. I turned warm, electric Wes into a robot with one little sentence. “I didn’t mean to insult you I just—”

  “Think I’m playing you.”

  “Well . . . ” His string of girlfriends were kind of a huge glaring sign.

  His gaze dropped my lips. “Are you attracted to me, Carrie? Have you been flirting with me just as hard as I’ve been flirting with you, or did I imagine it?”

  Oh snap. He was calling me out. “Yes, I’ve been flirting with you.”

  “So maybe it’s you who’s playing me? Why do I have to be the bad guy in this scenario?” He turned and waved at the bar filled with writhing bodies. “Are we not all here to drink, dance, and flirt? Or am I some exception to the rule?”

  Apparently “full of life” also meant “full of feelings”. I’d insulted him and he took it very personally. “I apologize for insinuating that you were the bad guy in this scenario. You’re right. We’re all here looking for similar things. Lines and flirting are all part of the territory.”

  He held his breath for another moment before letting it out slowly. “Shit. I’m sorry for jumping down your throat like that. I didn’t mean to react so strongly.”

  But he had and I wanted to know why. “So what do you usually say to the women you flirt with?” Because let’s not even pretend that he didn’t normally feed lines to women to get them to sleep with him.

  His cheeks turned a fantastic shade of pink. “Well,” he rubbed the back of his neck, “I usually tell them how gorgeous they are, then buy them a drink.”