“Screw it,” I mutter, reaching for the closest cup.
Chapter Four
ARCHER
I sit on the edge of the bed for a while after Sienna leaves, trying to clear my head before I go back downstairs. It’s no use. No amount of deep breathing will be enough to wipe the memories of tonight away.
Or the guilt.
I’m not insulted Sienna didn’t stick around. V-card in hand, she promptly kissed my cheek and vanished through the door. I seriously doubt I rocked her world, but she didn’t seem to mind. For her, sex is more about power — about popularity — than physical pleasure. Just another tactic to make herself relevant.
Seeing how the guys on the team trail her around like lovestruck puppies, it’s a damn effective strategy. The way to a man’s heart may be through his stomach, but the way to a teenage boy’s sits directly behind his zipper. And Sienna is more than happy to trade a quick romp between the sheets for undivided male attention — however fleeting. Fake orgasms are just one more line item on her list of artificial qualities.
Fake tan.
Fake hair.
Fake nails.
Fake nice.
The girl adopts and discards new personality traits faster than most people change their socks. I honestly can’t stand her. Terrible to admit, given I’ve just bonked her brains out and all, but it’s the truth. It’s also the only reason I let her lead me into this bedroom.
Better her than someone who might think it actually means something.
I drop my head into my hands and rub them over my face, hard enough to make stars burst behind my eyes. Slapping my own cheeks, I command myself to stop being such a mopey fucker.
I made a choice.
There’s no taking it back.
No changing it.
Just living with it… and its fallout.
After all, that was the whole point of this charade, wasn’t it? I didn’t screw Sienna for my health; I sure as shit didn’t do it for my heart. It wasn’t a drunken mistake or a momentary lapse in judgment. It was a calculated move, designed to inflict maximum damage.
When I walked through this door, I knew exactly what I was doing — and who I’d be hurting. I knew I was drawing a line through my old life. Crossing out certain possibilities with permanent marker.
A face flashes in my head. One I’d memorized every facet of by age four; one I’ve spent every year since staring at with ever-increasing intensity.
Upturned nose, smattering of freckles.
Quick smile, dimpled cheeks.
Jo.
I slap myself again. Hard. Rattling every thought of her out of my skull. As if the physical pain I inflict on myself will somehow detract from the relentless ache inside my chest.
I’d cut my own heart out if I thought it would help. But there’s no help for this.
For me.
For us.
I was fully aware it would be hard. But this — the pain I’m feeling, the unbearable finality of it all — is excruciating. I tell myself it will get easier with time, knowing it’s a lie.
What’s one more?
Add it to the list.
Hauling in a final deep breath, I force myself to leave the room. Hiding out up here like a coward, unable to own up to my own decisions… unable to face the hurt I know awaits me in a pair of wide blue eyes… is just putting off the inevitable.
Rip off the Band-aid, asshole.
Downstairs, the party has petered out a bit as the beer and the drugs weave their dark web. More than a few people are already passed out, sprawled on various surfaces. In the foyer, I head for the first keg I see and pump myself a beer. It tastes like foamed piss, but I chug it down anyway, then promptly refill my cup.
Chug it down.
Fill it again.
I have to drive home later, but that’s the least of my worries right now. The promise of oblivion has a certain gravitational pull that cannot be denied. Anything that might blunt the agony headed my way like a freight train.
How the hell am I supposed to face Jo sober?
Taking a fortifying gulp, I search for her. Frustration mounts as I walk through the house, moving from room to room, checking all her usual places and coming up short. Never a big fan of parties, she almost always winds up in some quiet corner or other, hiding out until we can leave.
Not tonight, it seems.
She’s not on the front porch, watering strangers’ plants. She’s not outside on a pool lounger, staring up at the stars. She’s not in the dark library, perusing the shelves. She’s not propped in the bed of my pickup truck, waiting on me to drive us home.
Where the fuck is she?
A fissure of concern fires through my nerve endings, but I tamp it down with another gulp of beer. Eventually, I find my way to the back of the house, where most of the still-conscious partygoers are congregated. Sienna is snorting white lines off the coffee table, flanked on either side by the Wadell twins. She doesn’t even look at me when I walk in.
In the adjacent kitchen area, half my teammates are playing pong. I wander their way, mouth opening to ask if anyone has seen Jo, but the words catch in my throat. She’s right there, in the most unexpected of places — leaning against the refrigerator with Ryan Shithead Snyder’s arm around her shoulders and a red cup in her hand.
I stop in my tracks.
The first thing that registers in my brain is how good she looks. No matter that I’ve seen her every day for as far back as I can remember, no matter that her face is more familiar than my own in the mirror. It slams into me, a fresh gut-punch each time.
In a kaleidoscope of skin-tight dresses and spray tans, she’s a pure ray of light — that blonde hair half falling out of its thick braid, her skin a pale glow in the dimmed light, those ridiculous cut-off shorts she thinks make her look like a tomboy but actually just highlight how her legs stretch on for miles. Over the years, I’ve spent more time fantasizing about those legs than I care to admit.
Dangling from our spot up in the rafters.
Running toward me down the boat dock.
Kicking in the crashing waves.
Wrapped around my waist as I piggyback her across the lawn.
The second thing that registers is that she’s drunk. Her eyes, those insane sky-blue eyes that always stare straight into my soul, are half-lidded. She’s leaning against the stainless steel fridge doors, looking unsteady on her feet. I have to fight the urge to race to her side, to hold her up.
Someone’s already there. Already doing it.
Already in my place.
Ryan, that fuckwit, says something that makes her giggle. She sways slightly off balance, and he uses the opportunity to pull her closer against his bare chest. My grip clenches so hard around my cup, I hear the plastic crackle in protest.
Son of a bitch.
Ryan’s hands are all over her, roaming with a familiarity that sets my teeth on edge. I watch his dumb fucking fingers twist in the fabric of her sweater and feel a volt of something unpleasant snake through me. I want to close the distance and rip them off her. Violently. I want to grab her by the hand and drag her away from here, away from him, even though I know that’s the absolute last thing I’m supposed to be doing tonight.
I can’t help it. Reason, common sense, intelligent thought… they all evaporated the instant I saw her. My feet are moving before I can stop them, heading for her like a magnet. To hell with the consequences.
I’m halfway across the kitchen when a hand clamps down on my shoulder and stops me in my tracks.
“Yooooo, Reyes!” Chris Tomlinson pounds my back hard enough to spill my beer, grinning like the Cheshire Cat. “The champ returns!”
Apparently, news of my conquest has spread through this party faster than mono. Annoying, if not entirely unexpected.
“So…” Tomlinson leans in, waggling his eyebrows. “How was she? Everything you imagined?”
“Lay off, Chris.”
“You scored, right?”
&
nbsp; I don’t answer. I’m busy trying to see around him, to the other side of the kitchen where Jo is standing.
“Second? Third? Home run?” Chris pesters. “Don’t tell me you choked at the plate?”
Annoyance flickers through me. “I’m not talking about this with you.”
“Why so coy, Reyes?” He shoves me playfully. “I’m not getting any tonight, the least you can do is help a brother out with some details…”
Shouldering past him, I finally have a clear view of the refrigerator. Jo is no longer propped against it. She’s nowhere to be seen. Ryan, either.
Panic burns through me, a hot rush in my veins. My head swivels, searching the blur of faces in the kitchen. I think I catch a glimpse of her heading out the patio doors, but they swing back closed before I can be certain.
Dammit.
“Where are you going, Reyes?” Chris calls as I walk away.
I don’t even break stride. When it comes to my teammates, I’m far more interested in Ryan right now — specifically, what he’s doing with my best friend.
I’m reaching for the handle when the patio doors fly open in my face. Andy Hilton — certified idiot, but hell of an outfielder with a throwing arm like a young Babe Ruth — stumbles inside, marijuana smoke billowing around him in a cloud. His eyes are bloodshot. He’s grinning like a madman.
“Where’s Tomlinson?” he barks.
I jerk my head toward the kitchen. My impatience spikes higher with each second that slips by. I can’t stand not knowing where Jo is. Whether she’s all right.
Is seventeen too young for a heart attack?
“Come on, Reyes,” Andy says. Belatedly, I notice the net in his hand — the kind used for pond maintenance — and the flash of orange scales within. “You don’t want to miss this, I promise. Got a special delivery here, just for Chris…”
Jesus Christ.
Andy plows into the kitchen, leaving a wet trail from the doors to the island. Against my better judgment, I follow.
“Catch of the day!” he screams, upending the net onto the counter. The fish plops out, its eyes round as marbles, its mouth opening and closing in useless pursuit of air. It thrashes around like a seizure victim. Everyone leans in, mesmerized by the sight.
My eyes jerk toward Andy. “Dude, what the fuck?”
“Tomlinson bet me you couldn’t close the deal with Sienna,” he says gleefully, his eyes on Chris — who’s looking a little pale as he watches the fish squirm. “Since she already confirmed otherwise… it’s time for him to honor his wager.”
“It was a joke,” Chris says weakly, eyes still on the fish.
Andy snorts. “You’re only saying that because you lost.”
“What was the bet?” I ask, though I’m not entirely certain I want to know the answer.
Andy is all to happy to inform me. “Loser swallows a fish from the Park family pond.”
Chris shakes his head. “No. No way I’m doing this. I can’t.”
“Deal’s a deal, bro. ”
“Piss off, Andy!” His voice is slightly slurred. He’s had so many beers, I’m surprised he’s still cognizant enough to argue. “I’m not doing it.”
“Don’t be chickenshit.”
“Lee will kill me, man. Those koi are his Mom’s…”
“Lee’s passed out on the sectional. He’ll never know.” Red-faced and panting in excitement, Andy reaches out and grasps the wriggling fish in one of his beefy hands. It escapes several times before he manages to maneuver it into an empty beer cup. He stares gleefully at Chris as he slides the cup slowly across the countertop.
“You want me to add some water, or do you prefer it sashimi-style?”
Chris makes no move to take the cup. No one else does, either. Most of the guys just stand there watching, waiting to see how it all unfolds. A few of them start laughing. Pounding Chris on the back in encouragement. Egging him on.
All the while, the fish is drowning on dry land.
My eyes are locked on the cup. I’m not sure why the sight of it bothers me so much, but I can’t seem to look away. It rattles as the koi flops within, fighting for survival. His odds aren’t looking good if no one intervenes.
Dammit.
The last thing I want to do at this moment is save a goddamned oversized goldfish, but it seems I have no choice. I can’t leave the little guy in the hands of these clowns. Don’t get me wrong, I’m not some PETA warrior. I’ve heard all the arguments for plant-based diets and vegan lifestyles — “Fish are friends, not food!” — but I still enjoy a nice piece of swordfish on the grill. I’m always in favor of a clam bake on the coals. Give me some melted butter and a claw-crusher, I will happily decimate a lobster in under five minutes.
The one thing I cannot stand is wastefulness. Entitlement. Some rich kid reaching down into your tiny-ass pond, where you were minding your own business, swimming around in happy circles, never knowing any better… and yanking you out, into the air, just for sport. Just because he can.
That’s the shit I can’t quite swallow.
In this room full of trust fund brats and fourth-generation millionaires, I probably have more in common with the fish flopping inside that cup. Not that they know that, of course. If they did, I’d never be standing here in the first place.
“Stop dawdling, Chris!” Andy hoots. “Drink up!”
Chris steels his shoulders and takes a deep breath, preparing himself. Annoyed — at myself, at my idiot teammates — I snatch the cup off the countertop before he has a chance to grab it.
“This is the most idiotic shit I’ve ever witnessed,” I hiss through gritted teeth. “Where’s the pond? I’m putting him back.”
Andy groans. “Reyes, don’t be a buzzkill! We’re just having a little fun.”
“Your definition of fun is not the same as mine, Hilton.” I push past him on my way to the patio. Chris, I notice, looks more than a little relieved to see me go.
“Where’s your sense of humor, man?” Andy yells at my back. “I used to think you were chill!”
“And I used to think you weren’t an asshole. Things change.” With that, I step through the doors, into the dark, and set off in search of the goddamned koi pond. Figures, it’s on the farthest edge of the property — it’s been that kind of night.
I glance down at the orange fish. He’s still gasping for air, but he seems to be struggling less than before. Doubtful that’s a good sign, I pick up my pace.
Hang in there, little guy.
I don’t regret saving him from a brutal final swim in the bowels of Chris Tomlinson’s stomach; I do regret that this act of piscine altruism will undoubtedly delay my efforts to locate Jo.
An image of Ryan’s arm sliding over her shoulders slams into my mind. His fingers, twisting in her sweater. Her eyes, glazed with the effects of alcohol.
Cursing under my breath, I break into a jog.
Chapter Five
JOSEPHINE
I’m drunk.
I’m not certain how I know this for sure, seeing as I’ve never even been tipsy before, but things are definitely… off-kilter. In a big way.
There’s a slight haze wrapped around my brain. It’s like staring at the world through fog. Everything is at once duller and brighter, louder and farther removed. Despite the disembodied sensation, I am acutely aware of myself in a way I’ve never before experienced.
The press of the steel refrigerator at my back. The scratch of the wool sweater against my skin. The warmth of Ryan’s arm, wrapped around my shoulders. The slight tingle of nervous energy gathered at the base of my spine.
Chugging ten cups of beer will do that to a girl, I suppose. Not that I have much experience to go on. Besides the six-pack of IPAs Archer dared me to pilfer from my parents’ spare fridge a few summers back, I’ve never had more than a few sips at any of these parties.
In retrospect, maybe I should have. I can’t deny, the buzz is making it all much more tolerable. The music isn’t nearly as jarring to my ear
s. The jocks’ constant chest-bumping is almost endearing, now. Hard as it is to believe, even Sienna isn’t bothering me — despite the fact that, when I drained my final cup, she merely faked a yawn, whispered ‘boooooring’ under her breath, and wandered off toward the den to snort a few lines.
Whatever.
It’s not like I was expecting her to do cartwheels in my honor, or anything. I don’t need her praise. I’m proud of myself for proving I’m not a total Goody Two Shoes at least once before I put high school in my rearview. And Ryan, this giant golden-retriever-of-a-boy lingering by my side, seems proud of me, too. He’s told me so twice already, his consonants running together like water.
“Hell yeah, Valentine! That’s how it’s done!” His broad shoulder nudges mine. “Thought you said you didn’t drink?”
“I don’t.”
“Could’ve fooled me.”
I look up at him. His face is a bit out of focus, like a photograph snapped at the wrong shutter speed. In fact, it’s not just his face. The entire room is looking more like a double-exposure with every passing moment. I regret skipping dinner as the beer swirls inside my empty stomach.
“You want to play again?”
“Definitely not.” I shake my head vigorously. The move makes the room spin even more than before. I grab the edge of the countertop to steady myself.
“Hey, you okay? You look a little…” Ryan’s hand, warm and solid, lands on my shoulder. He squeezes gently through the fabric of my sweater, which suddenly feels too hot against my skin. I’m flushed and woozy, as though all the blood in my veins has rushed straight to my head.
“I’m fine,” I say. Slur. “I think I just need a little fresh air.”
“I’ll come with you.”
“No, that’s okay…”
But my weak protest is quickly brushed aside. Ryan’s arm is already around my shoulders, steering me toward the patio doors, over the threshold, into the night.
Outside, it’s quiet. Music drifts from the open windows, but otherwise there’s only the low hum of voices from the jacuzzi tub, where a handful of people are bubbling like lobsters in a pot. The surface of the pool gleams, a black mirror, as we pass by, stepping over discarded beer cans, cigarette butts, and plastic cups.
We Don't Talk Anymore (The Don't Duet Book 1) Page 3
