“God, he’s an idiot.”
The fire crackles beside us, the heat radiating against my legs as the chaos spirals around us. Someone screams from inside the house, followed by the distinct sound of glass shattering. A group of guys in Hawaiian shirts starts chanting for another keg stand.
“Think they’ll survive this one?”
I nod toward Emilio, who’s now climbing out of the pool, his dick bouncing all over the place as he does a mock victory lap around the edge.
It’s the last fucking thing I want to see.
“Define survive.”
Dom arches a brow while Emilio spots us and grins. He points the whiskey bottle at me, water still dripping from his hair.
“Diego, you’re sitting by the fire like an old man! Come on, show everyone your micro dick!”
He grabs his junk, giving it some generous pulls for effect as the crowd goes wild.
“Where the fuck is Massimo?” I grumble to Dom, who’s flicking Em off.
“Fuck if I know, but he needs to get a hold of him before I go over there and beat his ass.”
That’s the thing.
Dom would readily do it. Not give two shits. Not feel bad about it either. No remorse at all. Not that he’s a complete sociopath, but he thinks stupidity begets stupidity. He’d probably chalk it up to Em’s ass deserving to get beat. It’s a complicated relationship between the two of them.
“Pussies!” Emilio shouts, but his attention shifts to the crowd cheering for him near the pool. He raises his bottle and starts yelling something about being the king of the night.
Dom shakes his head, his lips twitching in disgust.
“Why do we still hang out with them?”
“Because it’s like watching a train wreck,” I reply, my tone dry. “You can’t look away.”
I close my eyes, the heat of the fire licking at my skin as I try to drown out the chaotic noise of the twins’s rager around me.
Holli’s voice echoes in my head. He’s been relentless in pestering me over the last two days about coming to this damn party.
And now?
He’s nowhere to be found.
Probably upstairs with that girl, doing things I don’t want to picture. It wouldn’t matter if I slipped out early. I could probably vanish for the night, and Holli wouldn’t notice.
My thoughts bounce between two very different women. My hot professor, whose voice and movements during today’s lecture had me shifting in my seat, and that biker in pink leathers. Wild, reckless, and nearly splattered against a moving train.
That lecture was torture. I behaved. I stayed quiet.
Damn, if it wasn’t a test of my will.
Rossi—Professor Rossi—moved around the room as though she owned it. Her tone was sharp but measured as she broke down reaction mechanisms. My mind undressed her a thousand times, peeling away her perfectly tailored blazer, imagining what was underneath every precise gesture and no-nonsense glance.
When her eyes scanned the room for answers, I felt her gaze land on me. My heart thudded against my ribs, but I didn’t move. She asked a question I knew the answer to and could’ve nailed without breaking a sweat, but I kept my hand down.
Let her wonder.
Let her look.
Still, my mind drifts. Back to that night. The streak of pink tears through the streets of Boston. The glint of her helmet’s visor as she glanced at me, daring me to keep up. She nearly got herself killed, racing past that train. The image plays over and over. That razor-thin moment when her bike barely made it. My adrenaline spiked as I slowed, watching her disappear into the night.
