The Score

“I’m just playing with you, bro. I get it all the time.” Roy breaks out in a huge grin. “I won ten grand last summer at a celebrity impersonation contest—first place for my Sam Jackson. I did the speech from Deep Blue Sea, right before the shark gets ’im.”

“Nice.” Dean flashes a mischievous smile. “PS, some more racism coming your way—you sound like James Earl Jones.”

Roy throws his head back and releases a big, booming laugh. Then he slaps Dean on the arm and says, “You’re all right, white boy.”

Just like that, they’re best friends, talking animatedly as they charge ahead.

Dillon sighs and links her arm through mine. “Roy likes to scare people,” she apologizes.

I snicker. “Don’t worry, Dean doesn’t scare easily.”

“Dean, huh?” Her eyes light up. “Why didn’t you tell me you had a new boyfriend?”

“Because I don’t. We’re just having some fun. Nothing serious.”

“Ha! Yeah right, AJ. With you, it’s always serious.”

Not this time, I want to say, but we’ve reached the table and the guys’ voices drown out our conversation. Beau and Roy are already talking football, and because the latter is so damn enormous, he takes up at least three people’s worth of space on the bench-style seat. Dillon slides in beside him, which leaves zero room for me.

Grinning, Dean tugs me into his lap and winds one strong arm around my waist. “You can sit right here, baby doll.”

“Aw, thanks, honey-pie.”

The six of us make such an unlikely group that I suddenly have scenes from The Breakfast Club flashing in my mind. Beau the East Coast quarterback. Dean the hockey player. Roy the linebacker from Louisiana. Joanna the Broadway actress. Dillon the finance major. And me, the future star of rom coms.

Despite that, there’s no shortage of conversation. Dillon and I fill each other in on what we’ve been up to the past few months. Since I started college, I’ve lost touch with most of my high school friends, but Dillon’s friendship is one I was determined to preserve.

As I chat with her, I’m very aware of the fact that Dean is touching me. Constantly. Stroking my shoulder. Grazing my thigh. Nuzzling my neck. At one point he even brushes his lips over my cheek, which summons a loud hoot from Beau.

“Jesus, Bella,” he marvels. He’s highly amused as he meets my eyes. “What kind of spell did you cast on my man Dean? I’ve never seen him like this with a chick before.”

“My name’s Allie,” I correct.

That makes him laugh harder.

Dean sighs, then leans in close and murmurs, “Wanna dance?”

“Depends… Are you a good dancer?”

“Every man is a good dancer.”

I snort. “The broken toe I got in high school begs to differ.”

“Sorry, what I should’ve said is—every man is capable of being a good dancer.” His hands lock around my waist as he lifts me to my feet. “There’s just one move a man needs to know in order to rock it on the dance floor.”

“Yeah? What’s the move?” I ask curiously.

Dean twines his fingers through mine as we descend the staircase. “STAG.” He has to shout his answer, because the music is louder down here.

I stand on my tiptoes so my mouth is close to his ear. “What’s stag?”

“The only one of Logan’s crazy acronyms I live my life by—STAG.” His mouth stretches in a broad smile. “Stand there and grind.”

Laughter bubbles out of my throat, turning into a shriek of delight when Dean hauls me into his arms. I wrap my legs around his waist and hold on tight as he carries me to the dance floor. Then he sets me on my feet, presses his delectable body against mine, and proves that STAG really is the only move that matters.

As the sultry, pulse-pounding beat snakes its way into my blood, I toss my hair and shake my hips and run my hands up and down Dean’s rippled chest. The strobe light flashes through the dark club, offering tantalizing glimpses of Dean’s chiseled features, his hypnotic green eyes, the sensual curve of his mouth.

We dance for hours. Or at least it feels like hours. The others join us on the dance floor, and I can’t remember the last time I had this much fun. I dance with Beau, who grabs my ass every chance he gets. I dance with Roy, who has some sick moves for a man mountain. I dance sandwiched between Dillon and Joanna. I dance with Dean, and the erotic grinding of his hips makes me hot and achy and utterly blissful.

Dillon and I sling back two shots at the bar, but I’m not drunk, just deliciously buzzed. Dean seems to be taking it easy too, but the others are definitely on their way to getting plastered. Especially Beau, whose cheeks are flushed and eyes are bright as he vertical-sexes a gorgeous redhead on the dance floor.

Joanna begs off around eleven-thirty, saying she has an early rehearsal in the morning. Dillon and Roy follow suit soon after; the moment Dillon starts slurring her speech, Roy proves to be not only a responsible adult, but a conscientious boyfriend, and promptly whisks her away. Around midnight, after Beau staggers up looking more wasted than ever, Dean decides it’s time for us to go, too.

“Where’s your friend?” I ask Beau, peering past his shoulder in search of the redhead.

“Went home to her husband.”

I fight a laugh. Dean, who’s pretty much the only thing holding Beau upright at this point, snickers loudly.

We exit the club and step into the frigid night air. Beau is leaning on me now, because Dean is at the curb hailing us a taxi. With Joanna gone, I’m worried about Beau getting home safely, so I insist he share a cab with us.

“You should go upstairs with him,” I tell Dean. “Make sure he gets all the way to his door.”

A cab miraculously appears. I slide in first, followed by Beau, who groans, closes his eyes, and proceeds to pass out with his head on my shoulder.

Dean gets in and rattles off Beau’s address to the cabbie. He looks at his sleeping friend, then meets my gaze over Beau’s head.

“His parents are home, right?” I say slowly. “Will they freak out if they see him like this?”

“Maybe.” Dean sighs. “Beau says they’re kinda strict. He went to all-boys Catholic schools his whole life.”

I bite my lip. “Maybe we shouldn’t take him home, then.”