He's Not My Type (The Vancouver Agitators, #4)

by Meghan Quinn

“Holmes isn’t happy, and he doesn’t have a lot of sex,” Posey says out of fucking nowhere. Uh . . . what? Blakely brings her attention to me with a tilt of her head. “Not having a lot of sex, Holmes?”

“Sherman, right?” Silas asks, getting in on it. Oh, look who’s dead to me as well. Posey and Silas, both dead to me.

Everyone in the circle turns their attention to me. I swear this feels like I’ve been sucked into an alternate universe where professional hockey players have pet bonsai trees with old man names and toss around spare bedrooms like candy.

Therefore, find your balls, man, because you are going to make my friend fall for you so fucking hard that she won’t know what to do with herself. Got it?” I swallow hard, staring down at the maniacal eyes of Eli’s girl, and I feel myself slowly nod. She pats my cheek. “That’s a good boy.” She straightens out her blouse. “Now, what is the plan?”

She plants her foot right on top of my chest, and in a demon voice, she says, “Get up and I will bring that pan over here and use your nut sac as a trivet. Got it?” I hold my hands up in surrender. “Fine.” I am just as terrified by Blakely’s demon voice as I am of Penny’s. Who taught who? Because surely, they weren’t raised with that voice, right?

It’s astonishing how . . . safe I feel. Cared for. Did I not feel that way with Perry? He cups the back of my head, keeping me close as he quietly says, “I’m not sorry for what I said and did.” “I know,” I reply. He gives me one more squeeze and says, “I’ll never be sorry for sticking up for you, Blakely.”

I move back up to her neck and ear, where I whisper, “Tell me you want this. That you want me.” She takes a deep breath and wraps her fingers around my hand, clasping them together against the door. “I want you, Halsey.”