“Holy hell, this is unbelievable, but I guess it shouldn’t be a surprise,” Scottie says next to me, eyes wide. “Once Ace Kelly became the president, shit was gonna get wild.”
I don’t answer her. I’m too busy searching the room.
And then I find him.
He’s standing near the stage, wearing a pirate costume—if pirates wore sexy velvet coats and partially unbuttoned shirts that showed off stupidly perfect collarbones. He’s chaos and confidence wrapped into one hot package.
And he’s not alone.
Scarlett is standing beside him.
My stomach twists at the sight of her. She’s in a devil costume, all legs and boobs and red lips and high heels. She’s draped overhim, laughing like he’s the funniest person she’s ever met, touching his arm like she belongs there.
My hand aches. I flex my fingers against the bandage, the gauze still wrapped around my palm. The throb is dull but insistent, and not because of the stitches.
It’s because of him. Because of last night.
Because Ace took care of me without question, like he’s done so many times before.
And I didn’t feel scared last night. Because Ace was there.
I force myself to look away. My eyes land on the bar, where Drew is ordering drinks. The female bartender is smiling at him, laughing, and leaning a little too close. She flicks her hair over her shoulder, and it’s a very flirtatious move.
I know that move. Every girl knows that move.
And yet, I feel…nothing. Not even a flicker of emotion.
Which is somehow so much worse than jealousy.
Because if I cared—if I still really cared—I’d be mad. I’d feel something. Instead, I feel like I’ve been holding my breath for weeks, pretending this thing with Drew still has life in it.
I glance at Scottie, my voice barely above a whisper, but the words fly out of my mouth unchecked. “I think I need to break up with him.”
Scottie jerks her head toward me. “Wait. What?”
I keep staring at the bar. “I can’t do it anymore. It feels cruel.”
Scottie doesn’t say anything. She threads her arm through mine and gives it a quiet squeeze.
Before I can say anything else, Drew is already walking back over with two plastic cups of beer.
He hands me one, and I down half of it in one go. It’s not even good beer, but I don’t care. I need something in my hands.
“Thirsty?” he asks with a laugh.
Scottie’s watching us with wide eyes, like she’s witnessing something she’s not supposed to be seeing. She sips her drink and avoids eye contact like it’s her job.
And I stare down into my cup like the answers might be floating in the foam.
What the hell am I doing?
Sure, Drew is good guy. A nice guy. He likes me, and he wants to be with me. But I don’t feel it. Not the way I’m supposed to. Not the way I feel when Ace looks at me like he’s gravity and I’m free-falling straight toward him.
I glance across the room again—back at Ace.
He’s still talking to Scarlett.
He’s out of reach. Maybe moving on.
