Van walks up with a woman on each arm and the kind of look I want to smack right off his face. Both blonds—one with straight hair, one curly. But their faces are indistinct to me, probably because I’m not interested. It’s not them. It’s me. I shift in my chair, looking across the room longingly at Wyatt as he lines up a shot at the pool table, laughing at something Cam says. I suck at pool. But I’d much rather have a cue stick in my hand and be losing to the new guys than have an overeager Van thrusting two blonds my way. As though invited—to be clear, they were not—the women drop onto my lap,
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