Shit.
I rake both hands through my hair and let my head fall back against the cushion, forcing myself to look up at the ceiling. I know it’s sick, this fixation I have on her. It’s fucking exhausting too. There’s a reason I never allow myself to do more than look, but lately, even that’s pushing me over the edge. Usually, I don’t realize how bad it’s gotten until I hear my own fucking thoughts.
Whitney moans, shifting against my side where I thought she’d fallen asleep. I look down at her, and her eyelashes flutter before she finds my gaze, trying to focus.
“I don’t feel so good, Easton.”
My brows furrow as I scan her pale face. “You only had those two cups, right?”
“Um ...” She looks away. Chews her lower lip. “Well,” she groans, pausing to wrap an arm around her stomach, “Elijah might have given me another cup or two while you were distracted.”
My eyes fall shut, and I swipe my palm down my face.
Goddamn Elijah.
Whitney’s softer than she lets on. She’s a perfectionist. She works herself to the bone in school and every other area of her life, but the stress of it didn’t fully catch up to her until senior year. A couple months ago, she decided to let loose with alcohol—a decision I warned her against, repeatedly, thanks to my mom’s shining example—and she doesn’t know her limits yet.
“Easton?”
I cock an eyebrow.
“I think ... I think I had too much. I don’t like the way it feels.” Her brows knit, lips curling like she might be sick. “The room is spinning.”
When she whimpers again, I pull her limp body into my arms and stand. Her head rolls to the side, and she stares up at me like I’m some kind of hero. Guilt stabs my gut. Whitney and I aren’t a normal couple. We’re both using each other in our own ways, but she’s innocent—more innocent than she’d ever let others glimpse—and seeing her like this isn’t right.
“Hey,” I say quietly. “You’re gonna be fine, all right? Let’s get you out of here.”
She nods and lets her eyes close.
I look up, about to step away from the couch, when my eyes latch onto familiar bottomless pools of dark brown. Eva’s heavy-lidded gaze is locked on mine, each roll of her hips slower and lazier than the music she’s dancing to. A new Solo cup is in her hand, blue this time. Marco closes the gap behind her, finding her rhythm. His grip lands on her bare waist and squeezes.
I work my jaw, telling myself to look away.
Walk away.
The warning that’s kept me away from her for this long rings in my ears:If you so much as speak to her...
That should be enough to make me leave right this second, but I can’t do it this time. I can’t look away.
When her eyes lower, finding Whitney passed out in my arms, something heated flickers across her expression. She quirks a brow. Then she raises her cup, mouthscheers, and stares right at me as she tosses it back.
I watch her carefully, irritation chasing through my veins as I wonder how many she’s already had.
I shouldn’t have come. I know this, but it doesn’t matter now. The damage is done. My pulse is ticking, my thoughts swimming. Hearing she goes to these things and fucks around isn’t the same as standing in front of her,watchingwhile she does it. At least when I stay home, I don’t have to see. I don’t have to know what, how, who. I’ve always fought against my impulses when it comes to Eva, but tonight, right now, my fingers twitch with an unhinged need to approach her. To walk right up to her and carry her home.
The partying, the sleeping around, the whole bullshit fa?ade she works so hard to maintain—she knows I hate it, but she doesn’t knowwhy. She doesn’t know I see through it. That the image of her fourteen-year-old body, shaking and covered in dirt—the first girl to ever stare up at me like I was her goddamn savior—was burned into my mind like a fucking brand. I saw her that night, really fucking saw her, and no matter how many Solo cups or strangers’ hands she hides behind, I’llalwayssee her.
Even when I don’t want to.
Even when it makes me do stupid shit like track her every move as she seductively guides Marco toward the stairs. She makes it up two steps before looking over her shoulder. My pulse spikes another notch. She knew I’d be watching. I always am. Her gaze roams my face, her chest rising and falling.
She’s better than him, than all of this. Sometimes, I think she knows it too, but she just doesn’t give a shit.
Finally, she blows me a kiss and disappears upstairs with Marco on her trail.
Eva
Shit.
