I close my fingers, pull it out, then open my palm. It’s a nice watch. Looks brand new. No scratches on the face, the strap stiff and smooth.
“Fuck,” Brandon snaps beside me.
I turn, but instead of looking at Brandon, my eyes move further, higher, and find Cody in the doorway, glaring at the watch I’m holding, his jaw ticking dangerously.
Oh no... no, no,no.My heart pounds in my chest. A cold slither travels down my spine, and blood whooshes in my ears.
This is not happening...
It’s bad enough I caved under pressure. What the hell was I thinking? No matter how fine I tell myself I am, I don’t have the balls to let someone feel me up in the closet.
But I didn’t think about the reality of participating. I focused solely on winning my friends back.
“Fuck indeed,” Colt agrees, a humorless chuckle falling from his lips. He sits in a wing chair, his hair messy after seven minutes in the closet with Anastasia.
“Whose watch is it?” someone shouts from the crowd.
“Cody’s,” Finn supplies. Uncertainty paints his face, but since no one is exempt, he plucks the courage to remind Cody of the rules. “Big boy pants, man. No swapping, no whining. Hate-fucks are awesome.”
The image of Cody’s big hands holding my hips as he thrusts into me from behind, pinning me against the wall, is the last thing I need, but my mind floods with more, fashioning a short, looped erotic clip.
His calloused fingers cuffing my wrists.
His warm breath in my ear.
That mountain of a body pressing against me. The sound it would make, slapping into mine after pulling back... Looks like there is someone I’d allow to grope me in the closet.
Slowly, Cody pushes away from the doorframe, his face unreadable. “Conor,” he says, not gracing him with a look as he hands Colt a beer.
Conor jumps to his feet, disappearing out of view, his steps measured like a man on a mission. Apparently, he understood exactly what Cody wants. The triplets have this nonverbal way of communicating I’ve always found fascinating.
I know why Cody hates me. I do. I hate myself more, but the disdain in his eyes as they lock with mine, cuts me deeper than I care to admit.
Regardless of the consequences, he won’t lock himself in the closet with me. He’d rather fuck the ugliest girl on the planet than poke me with a six foot pole, and that... it hurts.
My high school crush has been regaining momentum. It’s been growing faster since he allowed me inside his condo last week. He even visibly relaxed after half an hour of conversation.
I took it as a victory, a huge step away from the hatred. Now it feels like I took ten steps back.
The room is so quiet... no one speaks, and if not for the music pumping outside, you’d hear a pin drop as everyone’s eyes flicker between Cody and me.
“Not happening,” he seethes, holding his hand out, captivating me with a venomous stare. “My watch.”
I pass it over, careful not to brush his palm with my fingers, or I’m sure I’ll burst into flames. Humiliation warms my cheeks, spreading lower.
Inhaling a calming breath, I recenter myself, activating defensive mode, as I tilt my chin up. “Not even if you were the last man on earth.”
Loudboos fill the room, broken up by excited howling.
“Looks like you two are getting shitfaced tonight,” Justin hollers as Conor slams a bottle of tequila and two shot glasses on the table. “You don’t leave until this is empty.”
My palms grow damp. I’m not a big drinker. I enjoy wine, but nothing stronger, and the bottle of Patrón between us is the biggest I’ve ever seen.
“How much is in there?” I whisper to Brandon, my stomach churning. Bile leaps in my throat even though I haven’t had a single shot yet.
I should’ve eaten something before coming over.
“Too much for you to handle half,” he says, running a hand down my back. “Don’t worry, I’ll get you in bed when you pass out. You’re staying with me tonight.”
