Petty? Yes. Do I care? Nope.
Amber pulls me down the hallway, past groups of people who are too drunk to notice us. The music is still pounding, but it's getting quieter the farther we walk. She's navigating this house like she knows exactly where she's going. Maybe she does. Maybe this isn't her first time leading a guy away from a party.
Hell, I know it isn’t the first time. Again, I don’t care. I don’t want to marry the woman. I’m not going to ask her for her number.
"There's a room upstairs," she says over her shoulder. "Or we could find somewhere down here."
Yep, she’s been here before.
I don't answer. I'm on autopilot, letting her pull me along because it's easier than thinking. Easier than standing still and feeling everything I've been trying not to feel.
We're passing an open doorway when I hear it.
Laughter.Herlaughter.
I stop walking so abruptly that Amber stumbles, looking back at me with confusion. But I'm not looking at her. I'm looking into the pool room.
And there she is.
Sutton. Bent over the pool table, lining up a shot. And behind her—way too fucking close behind her—is some guy with sandy blond hair and a smile that makes me want to put my fist through a wall. His hand is on her lower back. He's leaning over her, supposedly showing her how to hold the cue, but I know that move.Everyguy knows that move.
And I know for a fact that Sutton Webb knows how to shoot pool. Her dad taught her when she was twelve. She's told me the story a dozen times.
My blood practically boils. All the anger and hurt boil over.
"Declan?" Amber's voice sounds distant. "Are you okay?"
I drop her hand and walk into the pool room.
The couple making out in the corner doesn't notice. The guys watching the other pool game glance up, then look away. They know me. Everyone knows the dirty details of my relationship with Sutton.
One of the guys playing pool pales. I know him. He’s on the JV team. He knows me and witnessed my temper earlier in the week.
Sutton straightens up, turning toward me. Her eyes go wide. The guy behind her—Connor, I think his name is—steps back, but not far enough.
"Having fun?" My voice comes out cold. I sound casual. But inside, I'm anything but cool or calm. My body is vibrating with my anger.
"Declan." She says my name like a warning. "Don't."
"Don't what?" I move closer, ignoring the way my hands are shaking. "Don't interrupt your little tutorial? Sorry, didn't realize you suddenly forgot how to play pool."
Connor's expression shifts from casual to wary. "Hey, man. We're just hanging out.”
"I'm not talking to you." I don't even look at him. My eyes are locked on Sutton. "What are you doing?"
"Playing pool." Her chin lifts, defensive. "What does it look like?"
"It looks like you're letting some random asshole put his hands all over you."
"I wasn't putting my hands on her," Connor says.
"You don't get to do this," she says, and now her voice is rising, too. "You don't get to show up here with some girl draped all over you like a second skin and then act like I'm doing something wrong."
"That's different."
"How? How is that different?"
"Because I wasn't the one who ended things!" The words explode out of me. The room goes quiet. Even the couple in the corner stops making out. "You don't get to walk away and then act like you're the one who's hurt."
