Hate the Game Read online Winter Renshaw (Love Games #1)

Categories Genre: College, New Adult, Romance, Sports Tags Authors: Series: Love Games Series by Winter Renshaw
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Total pages in book: 69
Estimated words: 66289 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 331(@200wpm)___ 265(@250wpm)___ 221(@300wpm)
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I head back into the house before he has a chance to speak. Once in, I take a White Claw from the now semi-organized kitchen counter and follow the music, disappearing into some room with a sound system so loud it drowns out every last thought in my head—which is a good thing.

Because all of my thoughts?

They’re about him.

Chapter 8

Talon

I lean against the wooden railing of the deck, watching the party house swallow Irie up as she heads in. Exhaling, my breath turns to clouds. No wonder no one’s outside tonight. It’s cold as fuck. Sitting next to her for the past twenty minutes, I’ve been so transfixed I haven’t given the temperature a second thought.

The music pumps from inside, the pulsing baseline of some Avicii song rattling the windows every four seconds. I’m going to have to head in. I’m going to have to slap on a shitfaced grin, pretend there’s nowhere else I’d rather be, and act like I’m not searching for Irie every time a pretty girl struts by.

Scraping my ego off the floor, I make my way inside, which now feels like a goddamned sauna. There are easily twice as many drunk bastards as there was before and it’s so fucking loud I can’t hear myself think—which is probably a good thing.

I grab a can of Miller Lite from the fridge since the ones on the counter are lukewarm. God forbid one of these pricks spends Daddy’s money on a bag of ice to turn the sink into a cooler trough.

Amateurs.

Pulling the tab, I lift the can to my mouth and finish the beer in three swigs before deciding to follow it up with another.

“Whoa, dude, take it easy.” Vin appears out of nowhere, slapping my back with a thick palm. “The night is young, my friend.”

“No shit, moron. Gotta get this party started.” I chug the second beer like a fucking man on a mission before grabbing a third—though this one will be more of a prop. I don’t want to get sloppy drunk because that’s a rookie move and no one ever looks good falling down and knocking into people. Besides, the last thing I need are four-hundred eighty-eight pics of myself shitfaced all over social media.

I’ve got a reputation to uphold.

Vin chuckles before plucking a room-temperature Corona from the counter. A second later, a pack of collar-popped guys come in, cases of Busch Light on their shoulders.

I get the hell out of there and head to the front room—a gargantuan space that once served as the mayor’s formal receiving room, complete with a hand-carved fireplace surround and wooden marble mantel. My mother refused to let my stepfather tear out anything original to the house. I think she still dreams of fixing it up someday, but the Westcott house is situated along Tiger Way … nestled between frat houses, sorority McMansions, and college bus stops. No one under the age of twenty-three is ever going to want anything to do with this house.

I find an empty section on a sunken plaid sofa by the window and take a seat. It takes all of three seconds for people to flock toward me. Some make it obvious. Some not so much.

“Hi.” A pretty brunette with lips the color of ox blood perches on the arm beside me. “You’re Talon, right?”

I recognize her now.

A cheerleader.

In high school, I chased every little short-skirted ponytail who so much as glanced in my direction. In college, the cheerleaders were notorious for fucking their way through the entire team, first string to second, running back to lineman.

“Bro, there you are.” Vin ambles toward us, his thick mitts filled with tequila in mismatched shot glasses. A curly-haired blonde is behind him, a bowl of lime wedges and salt shaker in hand.

They clear a small section of coffee table in front of me and start handing out liquor and limes.

“Saved the biggest one for you, man.” Vin hands me the tallest shot glass.

I force a smile before accepting it. The girl hands me a lime and then reaches for my arm, turning my wrist before bending to give it a lick, slow and seductive.

I jerk it away before her tongue contacts my flesh. “Nah, I’m good.”

She recoils, her smile fading like I’ve burst some fantasy bubble of hers, and I toss the tequila back in one go, no chaser, letting myself feel the burn as it glides down my throat.

A group of girls walk past the room, making their way to the stairs. I glance up, searching for Irie. But of course she’s not amongst them, and I should have known.

She’s never been a pack animal.

“Talon, mind if I get a pic?” A girl with tits up to her chin squeezes behind the sofa, her phone camera readied as she positions herself behind me. “Smile!”



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