I take a bite and my eyes roll back in pleasure. “Fuck, Bea, you’ve got to try this strawberry syrup. They make it here; it’s fucking heaven.”
She frowns, her nose scrunching adorably. “I don’t think I like flavored syrup.”
“Oh, shut up.” Beth always thinks never having tried something and not liking it are the same thing. I cut her a piece of french toast and dip it in the euphoria-inducing syrup. “Open,” I order her, and her lips part for my fork.
Her eyes close as she chews, a soft moan dancing in her throat. My dick twitches and I shift in my seat, subtly adjusting my jeans with my free hand. It’s impossible not to imagine slipping something else between those perfect lips, listening to that gorgeous fucking moan, feeling it vibrate through me.
Best friend’s kid sister, best friend’s kid sister, best friend’s kid sister. It’s a familiar fucking mantra.
Beth can only make it through half of her share of the food, so when she declares she’s done, I leave cash on the table and we start walking. Smithy’s is just off campus and less than half a mile from Standman, and the night is bright and mild. You can see the stars clearly here; fewer than fifty miles from the city, yet an entire universe away.
I walk Beth through the quad and right up to the front door of her building, texting the sober pledge to come pick me up. One is assigned every night, so we don’t have to worry about rides or drinking and driving. I hated it when I pledged, but considering the kind of hazing that used to go on at these schools a decade ago, we’ve all gotten off pretty damned easy.
“Thanks, David. I’m sorry I let Brian bug me out. He just gets in my head, you know?” Beth murmurs.
“No sorries, remember? And I get it. But he doesn’t deserve to get in your head, Bea. He doesn’t deserve to get inside any part of you. He never fucking did.” I know I shouldn’t have brought that up, but I couldn’t fucking help it. Fuck him for sleeping with her. Fuck her for letting him—for not knowing she was too good for him. And fuck me for being jealous.
“I know,” she whispers. And she does. But she also doesn’t, and it’s what tears me up.
I sling my arm around her slim shoulders and haul her in for a hug. “You’re too good for all of us, kid. Don’t forget that,” I tell her honestly.
She huffs out a shallow laugh. “You’re always so good to me, David. Even when I act like an idiot.”
“Especially when you act like an idiot,” I correct her.
She smiles a closed-mouthed smile. “Sammy’s lucky to have you as a friend. I’m lucky,” she whispers.
I shake my head. “Cap’s not here, Bea. And he’s not the reason I am, either. I think you know that.” Beth and I have had our own friendship for a long time, and I’m sick of pretending it’s only because of her brother.
“That means a lot to me,” she says.
“Good.” I press a soft kiss to her forehead. “Night, Bea. Get some sleep.”
She smiles up at me from under her long lashes. Not for the first time, I wish she was less beautiful.
“Night.” And she disappears inside.
I lean back against the wall of her building and stare up at the sky, cursing the joke that is my life. I pull my pack of Parliaments from my pocket and light one up, sucking the nicotine into my lungs, letting it calm my senses—letting the poison blacken my insides until they match the way I feel. I smoke the thing down to the filter before stubbing it out on the brick wall and tossing it into the trash can.
Mangina texts that he’s parked on the north side of the quad, so I head down the steps and along the pathway. A tiny orange light flashes in the dark of my peripheral, and I turn. The creep—Brody—is there, in his alleyway, watching me. My eyes narrow, and I’m about to cross over to confront him, but he turns and leaves.
I don’t chase after him. After all, Beth is safe in her dorm room, and Brody can’t get in there without a security key fob.
But what the fuck? Why is he still spying on her? There’s something off about him, and I silently vow to get to the bottom of it before whatever the fuck it is can hurt her.
Chapter Eight
Beth
I woke up to a text from Brian. Even after Friday night, it was the last thing I was expecting. He’s still just begging to talk, but I can’t imagine what could be left to talk about. So, I pack my bag for the day and tell myself it’s my turn to ignore his texts.
But I guess I’m not quite as good at it as he was, because as I go through my Monday classes, I get four more, and by the time I’m leaving my shift at the student health and guidance center, I’m texting him back, agreeing to meet him for coffee like a damned fool. I even blow off the call from my mom—something I never do—telling her I have to study, fearful she’d hear the uncertainty in my voice, sure she’d more than disapprove if she knew what I was up to.
And I wouldn’t blame her. I disapprove.
I can’t help but think of the last time Brian and I actually spoke.
If you’d have told me then that it would be the last time, I wouldn’t have believed you. Not then. Not after he’d spent nearly a year slowly and methodically stamping out my many insecurities and doubts, even as I sensed that my anxiety had begun to burden our relationship—had begun to burden him. But that night…that night had been special.
