The Chase

by Elle Kennedy

  He just nods.

  “Four minutes away,” Brenna says, holding up her phone.

  McCarthy is still standing close to her, not bothering to hide his disappointment. “You could stay…” He trails off, awaiting her response.

  Secretly, I think she totally would’ve fooled around with him, Harvard be damned. Unfortunately, he really did blow it with his overreaction to her identity.

  She takes pity on the guy, looping her arms around his neck and brushing her lips over his stubble-covered cheek. “Maybe in another life, McCarthy.”

  Smiling ruefully, he lands a lighthearted smack on her butt before she walks off. “I’m holding you to that.”

  On her way to the door, Brenna flicks the pithiest of looks in Jake Connelly’s direction. His green eyes gleam with amusement as she disappears from the room.

  Three minutes later, she and I are in the backseat of our Uber. Brenna addresses me in a grudging tone. “That wasn’t too atrocious.”

  “See! I told you it would be fun,” I tease.

  Scowling, she jabs a finger in the air between us. “With that said, I’m totally telling my dad about McCarthy’s knee.”

  I grin. “I wouldn’t expect anything less.”

  Brenna decides to crash at my house when she finds out my roommates are having a party of their own. She confesses that she’s a night owl and has a hard time falling asleep before three or four a.m. Me, I love a good after-party like I love my Prada boots, so I’m happy bringing her home with me.

  To our dismay, everyone’s gone when we walk through the door. My roommates are still up, though. Hollis and Fitz are on the couch, battling each other in a shooting game. Hunter is passed out in the easy chair, clad in sweatpants and a threadbare T-shirt with the sleeves cut off.

  The only evidence of a get-together is the dozens of empty beer cans and the faint scent of marijuana that seems to be coming from Mike’s direction.

  “Get the fuck out of here,” Hollis is growling at Fitzy. “Stop cornering me.”

  “Stop hiding in the same warehouse if you don’t want me to find you.”

  From the doorway, I watch as the soldier on Mike’s side of the screen faces down the barrel of a scary-looking gun. On Fitzy’s side, it’s clear he has Hollis completely trapped.

  “Any last words?” Fitzy asks.

  “I never learned how to ride a bike.”

  Fitz bursts out laughing. A deep, sexy laugh that rolls out of his muscular chest—and dies the moment he spots me.

  “Holy shit, that was funny,” Brenna tells Hollis as she saunters into the living room. “You actually said something that made me laugh. Like, with you and not at you.”

  He responds with a scowl. “Oh, hi there. How was Rome?”

  “Rome?” she says blankly.

  “Yeah. Rome.” His dark look travels toward me. “Right, Brutus?”

  I reluctantly turn to Fitz for assistance. “What the hell is he talking about?”

  “Et tu, Brute,” he murmurs wryly.

  “Davenport told us where you were,” Hollis accuses. “So don’t try to hide it.”

  “I wasn’t going to,” I say cheerfully. “Bee, you want a drink?”

  “Obviously.”

  From the armchair, Hunter cracks one eye open. “Only thing left is the bottle of Fireball,” he mumbles, haphazardly gesturing to the end table.

  I eye the whiskey bottle apprehensively. “Feeling spicy?” I ask Brenna.

  “Always.”

  Grinning, I duck into the kitchen in search of shot glasses. When I come back, Brenna is nestled on the other side of Fitzy, trying to convince him and Hollis that she was coerced into attending the Cambridge party.

  “It was terrible,” she bemoans.

  “Bullshit! She had the best time ever.” I set the glasses on the table, then glance at my roommates. “It’s okay if Brenna stays over, right?” I’m wondering now if I should’ve asked for permission.

  But Hollis waves his hand dismissively. “Of course you’re staying over,” he tells her. “My bed is your bed.”

  Fitz snorts.

  “Oh honey, I wouldn’t touch your bed with a ten-foot pole.”

  “Speaking of poles…” He wiggles his eyebrows.

  “Keep it in your pants, Michael.”

  “Aw, have some mercy on him. He needs it tonight,” Fitz says, slinging one tattooed arm around her shoulder.

  And no, I’m not jealous seeing that.

  Why would I be?

  I tear my gaze away and focus on pouring the Fireball.

  “Why does he need my mercy?”

  “Because he shaved his entire body for a woman and got stood up.” Fitz looks like he’s trying not to laugh.

  From his chair, Hunter doesn’t bother refraining. He chuckles, albeit sleepily. I think maybe Hollis wasn’t the only one smoking weed tonight. Hunter has barely moved since we got home.

  “Oh, dear.” Brenna reaches across Fitz’s big body and pats Hollis on the arm. “My apologies, sweetie.”

  I study him as I finish pouring. He’s wearing jeans and long sleeves. Not a hint of skin. “On a scale of one to ten, how hairless are you?”

  His lips curve. “C’mere and find out…”

  This time Fitz reaches over, smacking Hollis on the back of the head. “Enough, dude. Even I’m starting to get skeeved out.”

  Brenna and I clink our glasses, raise them to our lips, and throw back the shots. The cinnamon-flavored liquid burns a path all the way to my stomach.

  “Jee-zus!” I groan. My mouth and throat are on fire. “I forgot how potent this stuff is.”

  “Another one,” Brenna orders. “I barely felt that.”

  With a snort of laughter, I pour two more shots.

  As we drink our next round, I can feel Fitz’s cautious gaze boring into me. I bet he wants to lecture me about the booze. Warn me to slow down. But he keeps his mouth shut.

  “Oooh-kay, I definitely felt that one!” Brenna’s cheeks are flushed now. She wastes no time whipping off her tight black sweater, leaving her in black skinny jeans and a lacy, barely-there camisole.

  Hollis’ blue eyes smolder. “Wanna go upstairs? To answer Summer’s question, I’m a ten. Completely hairless…”

  A giggle pops out of my mouth. Right. As if that’s going to entice her.

  “Absolutely not,” she replies. She reaches for Fitz’s abandoned Xbox controller. “What are we playing?”

  “Killer Instinct.”

  “Nice. I know this one. Let me play Hollis. I want to blow his brains out a couple times.”

  Hollis beams. “All I heard was ‘I want to blow.’ And my answer is yes. Blow away, baby.”

  Sadly for him, she sticks to virtually shooting him in the head half a dozen times. I’m not particularly fond of watching other people play video games, so I peruse Hollis’ Spotify library on his open laptop, make a playlist, and spend the next hour rocking out by myself while Brenna takes turns facing off against Hollis and Fitz.

  We down two more shots during that hour. And then another two, after Hollis insists there’s no point leaving such a teeny tiny amount in the bottle. “This is Briar!” he shouts as if he’s acting out a scene from Gladiator. “We finish what we start!”

  I’m drunk enough that his speech makes perfect sense to me. So the three of us polish off the Fireball, while Hunter snores softly in the armchair and Fitz watches me with what I think is disapproval. I can’t be sure, because my vision is a wee bit fuzzy.

  And the room might be a wee bit spinny.

  But that could also be because I’m spinning.

  “I think it’s time for bed.” Fitz’s low voice rumbles in my ear. He comes up behind me as I dance to a Whitesnake song from Hollis’ metal playlist.

  I was in the middle of a ponytail-swishing move, so my hair whips him in the face when I twirl around. He doesn’t even flinch. Just plants one big hand on my arm to steady to me before I topple over.

  “I’m not
tired,” I inform him, shrugging his hand off.

  Once again, I teeter on my feet. And once again, he grabs hold of me.

  Only this time, he takes it a step further.

  Before I can blink, my whole body is in the air. Fitz heaves me over his shoulder, and suddenly I’m staring at the back of his black T-shirt while my legs dangle over his broad chest.

  I kick him. “Put me down! Oh my God, Fitz!”

  “No.”

  I kick him again. Harder. “Put me down! Brenna, save me!”

  “Babe, you’ve been solo-moshing to hair metal for the last hour,” I hear her say. I can’t see her, because Fitz is still caveman-handling me. “I think he might be right. I’ll be up after this game.”

  I catch a glimpse of her amused face before Fitz marches us toward the stairs.

  “Seriously,” I growl. “Put me down.”

  “No.” His arm is like an iron vise around the backs of my thighs.

  “I mean it! I’m not some toy you can fling around! I’m a human being, and I have rights!”

  All I get in response is a low chuckle.

  I can’t believe he’s carrying me upstairs. Like I’m a six-year-old who’s past her bedtime and needs to be banished to her Hello Kitty bunk beds. Gritting my teeth, I slam one fist against his shoulder blade. He doesn’t even budge. We’re halfway up the stairs. I try a different route and pinch his deltoid muscles. When that fails, I go for the lats.

  He rears back as if he’d been shot, then curses in annoyance. “Stop that.”

  “I will if you put me down.” I pinch him again, and again.

  He shrugs his back and shoulders to try to shake my fingers off him. “For fuck’s sake, Summer. No more pinching!” he yells.

  “Oh, but you’re allowed to grab me against my will?” I yell back.

  We’re both breathing hard. I feel beads of sweat form at the nape of my neck and between my breasts. It’s hard work trying to pry myself out of his grip. He reaches the top of the stairs and charges toward my bedroom, swearing the entire way because I won’t stop pinching his stupidly muscular back.

  “When did you become the fun police?” I demand when he finally sets me down—a little rougher than necessary. My feet connect with the floor in a hard thud. “And what gives you the right to drag me upstairs?”

  His brown eyes blaze at me. “You were three seconds from falling over and smashing your head on a piece of furniture. Probably knocking yourself unconscious too.”

  “Oh my God, why is everyone in my life so dramatic! I was just dancing!”

  “I’m dramatic?” he roars, and I’m momentarily amazed because I don’t think I’ve ever heard Fitz raise his voice. “You freaked out on me yesterday for no reason. You accused me of implying you can’t fucking read.”

  “Because you were acting like a condescending asshole!”

  “And you were acting like a brat!”

  “And now you’re acting like my father!”

  “And you’re still acting like a brat!”

  We stop and glare at each other. He’s visibly clenching his teeth. The cords of his neck are like overly tightened guitar strings. He looks like he might snap at any second. But after several beats, he releases a heavy breath and rubs his dark beard.

  “I’m sorry about last night, okay?” he mutters. “I didn’t mean to imply—”

  “It’s fine,” I cut in tersely.

  “Summer.”

  “What.”

  “I’m serious. I don’t think you’re stupid.”

  That makes one of us.

  I banish the self-effacing thought to the bowels of my intoxicated mind. Somehow, even drunk off my face, I know better than to give him the satisfaction of seeing my insecurities.

  I ball my fists and press them to my sides. Fitz is still watching me, no longer angry or frustrated, but contemplative. Even now, when I’m mad and aggravated by him, his presence affects me. My heart is pounding. My knees feel wobbly. Tingles dance along my spine and settle between my legs. When Fitz rakes his long fingers through his tousled hair, the tingles transform into a tight knot of need.

  He turns me on so badly. I want those fingers on my body.

  “I liked you,” I blurt out.

  His hand freezes in his hair. “What?”

  “Nothing. Forget it. I’m drunk.” I backpedal like my life depends on it, because Fitz isn’t allowed to know that I was interested in him, or that he hurt me. Telling him means admitting I’d heard every derisive word he’d spoken about me.

  A line cuts into his forehead. “Summer…”

  “I said forget it. You’re right, it’s time for bed. Thank you so much for escorting me upstairs.” The sarcasm oozes like molasses. “Now will you please get out of my room?”

  He hesitates for a second. Then his shoulders roll up and stiffen, and he gives a curt nod. “Goodnight.”

  I let out a frazzled groan the moment he’s gone.

  Dammit. Me and my stupid mouth. I really need to stop blurting out exactly what’s on my mind all the time.

  A loud thump followed by an even louder curse jolts me awake the next morning.

  I’m a light sleeper, so the slightest noise can pull me from a state of deep slumber into wide-awake panic mode. Wild-eyed, I sit up and check the time on my phone. It’s seven-thirty. On a Sunday.

  Which one of my roommates is making such a ruckus? I must know this in order to know who I’ll be murdering.

  They better not wake Brenna. I assume she’s asleep next to me, but when I look over, I realize I’m alone. I swear she’d said she’d be right up last night.

  “Dammit,” someone mutters.

  Brenna’s voice.

  I fling the blankets off and jump out of bed. I open my door at the same time two other doors swing open. Fitz and Hunter appear in their respective doorways, sporting boxers and some serious bed head.

  All three of us gape when we notice whose room Brenna is exiting.

  She freezes like a forest animal that just heard a twig snap. She’s wearing nothing but her camisole and black bikini underwear. Her jeans are slung over one arm, and her hair is ’80s-rock-level disheveled.

  She meets my eyes and shakes her head in warning. “Not one word.”

  I don’t think I’m capable of words. My tongue is on the floor, rendering me speechless.

  Brenna is doing the walk of shame out of Mike Hollis’ room?

  This is unfathomable to me.

  Hunter opens his mouth, but she silences him with a low growl.

  “Not. One. Word.”

  Fitzy shakes his head in resignation, turns around, and closes his bedroom door.

  “I’ll call you later,” Brenna murmurs as she passes me on the way to the stairs.

  I nod wordlessly.

  She’s gone a few minutes later, the sound of a car engine telling me she arranged for a ride home.

  “Wow,” I say.

  To my surprise, Hunter follows me into my room and throws himself on the bed. His abs bunch up and ripple as he gets comfortable. “That was unreal,” he says drowsily.

  I stare at him. “Is there a reason why you’re lying in my bed?”

  “Not really.” He rolls onto his side, thrusting out one long, muscular leg. He cuddles with my pillow and lets out a contented sigh. “‘Night.”

  Unbelievable. He’s fast asleep within seconds, but I don’t even have the energy to kick him out. It’s too early in the morning, and I’ve only gotten about four hours of sleep.

  So I do what any tired twenty-one-year-old woman would do. I crawl into bed with the half-naked man who’s taking up residence there.

  Hunter makes a soft noise and then flings an arm over me, drawing me closer. At first I resist, going stiff. Then I relax, allowing the tension to seep out. It’s been so long since I’ve spooned with someone, and it’s…

  Dammit, it’s nice.

  12

  Fitz

  Monday is the first day of the new semester a
nd I’m up before the birds. The sky is a navy-blue brushstroke across a black canvas. A tiny glimmer of light begins to peek through the darkness as I stare out the kitchen window waiting for my coffee to brew. I’m looking forward to my classes today. I’ve heard nothing but phenomenal things about Cinematography for Games, and Fundamentals of 2D Animation sounds bomb.

  I’m a double major in Fine Arts and computer programming—which my old man never fails to lecture me about. He thinks it’s an unnecessary burden, that I should focus only on the latter. “Computers are the future of art, Colin,” is his go-to argument.

  He has a point; graphic design does operate mostly in a digital sphere these days, with people drawing directly on their computers or tablets. I’m guilty of it of myself.

  But for me, there’s nothing better than feeling the firm surface of a sketchpad under my hand, hearing the scrape of a pencil or the rasp of charcoal moving across the page. Drawing on paper and painting on canvas is so ingrained in me that I can’t imagine ever relying solely on technology.

  I’m sure eventually museums will display only digital screens instead of canvases, and maybe it makes me a dinosaur, but that notion is a real bummer to me.

  Since my first class isn’t till ten, and practice isn’t till eight, I have plenty of time to monitor the beta progress of my game. I take my coffee upstairs and settle at my desk. Or, what Hollis likes to call Space Command Central.

  My gaming setup is a bit intense for a college student, complete with three hi-def monitors, a programmable keyboard, a fully customizable gaming mouse, and a graphics card that cost more than I’d like to admit. But frickin’ worth it.

  I reach for the black-and-neon-green headphones hanging off the external speakers and slide them on. I watch a couple of streams, then check the private message board I set up for my beta group. Access to the game was by invite only, so the only people playing Legion 48 are the ones I chose and approved. On the chat feed, there are a few requests for cheat codes that make me roll my eyes. I skim those and search for usable data. The point of this version is to get the bugs fixed so that the final product is fully functional.