I can’t remember why I hated him. So he likes his music. So he uses all the hot water. Cold showers are good for hair growth and opening up the pores. He’s doing me a favor, I decide, running a hand through my glossy hair. Reid catches my arm, pulling it back to wind around his neck. My fingers splay into his white hair, nails dragging through the longer length at the back of his head. In response, his mouth presses against my neck and if I wasn’t so drunk, I’d have been embarrassed at the groan that escapes me at that briefest contact. He’s everywhere. Awakening goosebumps across my stomach and chest, drawing desire to the point of contact between his lips and his cock grinding into my ass.
Cracking my lids, Laura remains in my eye line, although her features begin to blur in my eyes. I know when she’s winning by the raise of her arms into the air, and the bounce of her yellow hair bobbing up and down. She’s happy, she’s blossoming. And she doesn’t need me anymore.
“Meet me upstairs in five minutes?” I turn my head to mumble. Gray eyes capture mine, hazed but intense. His cheeks are slightly flushed, his mouth parted. Swallowing, Reid gives me a single nod and reluctantly withdraws his hands from my body. I almost whimper at the loss, cold skating across my skin despite the heat plastered to my chest. I extract myself fully, taking a red cup with me as I move away.
One unsteady step at a time, I navigate the kitchen, then the hallway, ducking and weaving through those dancing in every available space. The thrum of loose ambitions sinks pleasantly into my psyche, my hand trailing the railing as I climb the stairs. Tipping the cup to my lips, I sway and almost fall back, but somewhere I manage to regain my balance and make it to the top without incident.
The hallway upstairs tilts slightly to the left, or maybe that’s just me. The music is muffled here, reduced to a distant pulse beneath the murmur of voices and occasional laugh leaking through closed doors. The carpet feels too soft under my boots, swallowing the sound of my steps as I drift forward numbly. The air is warmer up here, thick with perfume, sweat and something unquestionably intimate.
I reach for the nearest door handle, twisting it without knocking, and finding it occupied. A startled gasp meets me, followed by a low curse as I slam the door shut again. The second door yields a similar result, although the two bodies tangled on the edge of a bed pay me no mind. The third is actually locked. Tossing my empty cup aside, I raise my hands and applaud loudly.
Although my appreciation of drunken logic is short lived, because my options are becoming limited. Briefly leaning against the wall, the cool paint a balm against my overheated skin, I turn my head to look at the door at the end of the hall.
I don’t want to go in there. Not really. That room holds too much history tangled between leather and dark wood. But I also don’t want to go back to my dorm tonight, knowing my apprehension stopped me from being reckless, from feeling alive, if only for ten minutes. That’s the whole reason I asked Thiago to take a night off from being my personal, virtual bodyguard.
Sweet, caring Thiago. He sees the best in me. He thinks I’m worthy of his devotion, but I knew coming here would unravel that. I knew between the versions of the popular, carefree girl I used to be and the traumatized, broken woman I am now, that I couldn’t trust myself. Regardless of whatever other regrets come out of tonight, I couldn’t deal with his disappointment in me.
The alcohol pushes me to move, closing the distance until my hand settles on the handle and I push it wide open. Thequiet inside is almost jarring. Lamplight casts the room in amber shadows, glinting off polished shelves and the glass decanter on the desk. For a split second, I think the room might be empty. It isn’t.
Everest is seated in the large leather chair behind his desk as if he’s been there all night. As if this entire house exists purely as background noise to whatever private world he occupies. His feet are propped casually on the edge of the desk, ankles crossed, a crystal tumbler of dark whiskey cradled loosely in his hand. The liquid catches the light as he tilts it slightly, watching it swirl in lazy circles. His shirt is loosely buttoned, the collar popped open, the fabric strained just enough across his chest to make it clear he dressed for the party but shed the formality hours ago. The sleeves are rolled carelessly to his forearms, veins visible beneath flawless skin.
He doesn’t look surprised to see me. If anything, he looks amused. His unhurried gaze starts at my boots and slowly drags upward, taking in every detail until it reaches my face. My breathing stutters slightly, but I know better than to let it show. Instead, I lock my knees and roll my shoulders back, tilting my chin up just enough to appear composed.
“Well, hello lover,” Everest purrs, lowering his feet from the desk and setting the glass down. His eyes are darker than usual, heavy-lidded and far too sensual as his mouth curves into a knowing smile. “Back for round two, after all?”
Chapter Twenty Two
This very night, two years ago
I fucking hate parties. The noise, the destruction. More than that, I hate the version of myself I must become to host them. The golden haired boy who opens the gates with a whiskey bottle in hand and devilish smirk plastered across my face. I welcome them in, stay for a few photos to prove I was present, then I slink away to the only room in this house that still feels like mine. Lifting said whiskey bottle, I simply inhale it in an effort to root myself to the present. Then, I loosen my tie and toss my jacket aside, counting the minutes until it’s over.
This persona I’ve been forced to create isn’t by choice. It doesn’t care for order or spreadsheets or preparation. Being a Calloway comes with expectations. The carnage downstairs being one of them. Between the music slamming against the walls and the sound of yet another window shattering, I pinch the bridge of my nose and sink into the leather chair.
My phone lies facedown against the desk’s polished wood, discarded but not forgotten. The call with my father ended less than an hour ago, his voice still reverberating in my skull with the monotone of disappointment. He’s seen the headlines of Meg’s victory, and he’s pissed to say the least. ‘Control the narrative. Don’t let it control you,’ he grumbled before hanging up. I can still hear those words in my head, playing on a loop, twinged with what he meant. Don’t be a fucking failure all your life.
Some academies build their reputations on soccer or basketball, grooming prodigies from childhood like prized racehorses. Hollowbrook’s specialty is lacrosse, and Meg O’Connor is its new shining jewel.
There’s something to be said for natural talent, something that can’t be manufactured no matter how much money is thrown around. It doesn’t matter that I’ve been running drills with a ball since I was old enough to walk. Despite being a sophomore, Meg’s female team have secured a huge grant to become the academy’s sole representatives, while mine is officially out of all main championships, left to compete in small-time leagues that are only an option due to my last name. Had I been anyone else, we’d have been benched for good, and I can’t say I would have hated it. Maybe for once, I’d have been able to get a feel for who I am, what I actually like.
Downstairs, someone whoops loudly as furniture scrapes across hardwood. I lift my bottle and watch the whiskey catch the lamplight, amber and calm despite the tremors runningthrough the house. I throw these parties because I’m expected to assert my dominance and remind this campus who runs it. In fact, it’s my father’s legacy I’m mimicking. Yet, there’s nothing dominating about broken glass or the noise complaints waiting to happen. There’s nothing impressive or intimidating about a reputation I inherited instead of built.
Suddenly, the door to the room bursts open, a spill of light producing a beaming, stumbling brunette. I raise a single brow, wondering what cruel trick of manifestation has brought her to me. Until she sets her dazed blue eyes on my face and raises the red cup in her hand.
“There you are,” Meg straightens and does her best to put one foot in front of the other. With her free hand, she slams the door closed.
“You’ve been looking for me?” I ask carefully, sitting upright. She’s still wearing fragments from the interview panel she attended this afternoon. A Hollowbrook jacket half-zipped over a fitted top, jeans hugging her long, powerful legs. Her hair is free and full-bodied from the celebration, a flush set high on her cheeks that suggests she’s had just enough to drink to soften her assertive edge.
“I thought you’d want to congratulate me.” Ahh, there it is. The cocky confidence that irritates me on anyone else, but not her. She’s earned it, after all. I’ve seen her on the field, flooded by the stadium lights, sweat-slicked and defiant as she lifts her stick in victory. She doesn’t crack under pressure, she thrives on it. And for that, I admire her spirit.
“Congratulations, Meg.” I lift my bottle and take a long swig. Her lips curve into a slow, self-assured smile. She moves around the edge of the study, her fingertips grazing book spines, her eyes purposely avoiding me as she pauses briefly at the window. Students are still swarming the gates in hopes of getting inside,not that there’s a single sliver of room left. Twisting my chair, I knot my fingers over my shirt.
“Shouldn’t you be downstairs celebrating?”
“It’s rather loud down there. I figured I would enjoy something…quieter,” she replies, her gaze dipping briefly to the glass in my hand before lifting again to meet mine. There’s a dangerous heat coming off her skin. Exertion, alcohol, adrenaline, and dare I say, lust. The combination brushes against the edges of my mind like a warning. One I quickly decide to ignore when she takes a step closer.
“Nothing about you is quiet,” I comment, my throat going dry. Meg takes another step towards me, her eyes half-lidded and unable to withhold her intentions. I widen my seated position, permitting her to plant herself in between my legs. Footsteps thunder down the hallway outside, laughter crashing against the door like it’s demanding entry. The spell between us fractures slightly, and awareness floods back into her eyes.
“I should go,” she breathes, licking her lips.
