Page 2 of Play the Part (Marsford Bay #2)

HUXLEY

Five Years Later

M y skin feels too tight. My clothes too itchy.

I pick at a hangnail and chew on my thumb as I try to drown out the noise, but nothing I do helps. Everything is too loud. Too bright. Too much.

I’m at my brother Ozzy’s engagement party. He’s been with his girl for six years now, but he said he wanted me out of prison before getting married.

That should have made me feel good.

It doesn’t.

All it does is remind me that I spent almost half of my twenties in prison and made him wait to marry the love of his life.

For a stupid fucking decision I made when I was seventeen.

I was the getaway driver in a liquor store robbery gone wrong.

The car was stolen, so they eventually got me for Grand Theft Auto.

Ozzy should have forgotten about me.

Everyone else has.

I study him from where I’m sitting. He seems happy.

Like really happy. Eyes bright, shoulders relaxed.

He’s dancing with James, his fiancée, and his friends on the small makeshift dance floor they made by pushing some of the dining room tables against the wall near the kitchen.

They closed their friend Itzel’s restaurant just for their engagement party.

It’s meant to be intimate.

Still, there are too many people here for my taste.

I’ve been out for a couple of months now. But it still feels like there’s a rope around my neck, choking me. Ozzy told me that therapy would probably help. I told him to fuck off. The feeling is especially acute when I’m around practical strangers and can’t drink alcohol to numb the edges.

Fucking probation .

I abruptly stand up and head for the back door.

At least I’m still allowed nicotine.

The back door swings open, letting the music spill out along with Connie, James’ best friend from LA.

“Oh!” she blurts when she realizes who’s outside with her.

I already feel like a fucking pariah, but the look she gives me just solidifies the feeling.

I look away, pushing the smoke from my lungs out into the night sky.

They can all fuck off.

I pretend to ignore her, toying with my tongue ring for something to do, but I can sense every small move she makes. A skill I picked up in prison. Amongst others.

With the quiet scuffs of her heels on the asphalt, she seems to deliberate, but eventually, she says, “I just needed some air.”

Her giggle is disingenuous, but I look back at her anyhow. The light above the door bounces off the red in her hair. It almost looks gold from this angle.

“And maybe a small drag of that?” Her hazel eyes sparkle like we’re sharing a secret as she brings her index finger and her thumb close together before pointing to my cigarette. “I never really smoke, but I just had a couple of glasses of wine and?—”

“I don’t care.”

I’m pressed against the brick wall and make no effort to lean any closer, but still hold my arm out toward her so she can grab my cigarette. Connie scoffs, slightly vexed, but still takes it out of my hand. She takes a drag, her eyes fixed on me.

“Haven’t seen you since Jamie’s first Christmas with Ozzy.”

God … Is this chick for real?

I drag my tongue over my teeth and look down at the ground before lifting my gaze to the sky. “I’ve been busy.”

This time, her laugh is real. “You’re quite the charmer.”

My attention lands back on her as she takes another drag of my cigarette. She’s propped an elbow onto her opposite palm, the cigarette dangling from dainty fingers. Her eyes are narrowed, head cocked to the side, clearly assessing me.

A shiver tickles my nape.

“How old are you now, anyway?”

My first reflex is to bite out an annoyed, “ Why do you care? ” But I let the words simmer on my tongue and instead say, “Twenty-three,” then add quickly, “Twenty-four in October.”

I internally cringe. I sound like a fucking kid counting their age in halves and quarters trying to sound older. It’s especially mortifying knowing that she must be around the same age as James, who is twenty-eight. I try to offset the feeling by barking for her to give me back my cigarette.

She quirks a smile. Unbothered by my aggressive outburst. The silence floats around us before she steps a little closer to me and hands me back my smoke.

She doesn’t step back, and her body so close to mine makes my skin start to itch again. She’s almost my height with her heels, her hazel eyes lifting upwards ever so slightly to meet my gaze. Shooting me another coy smile, she slides a finger over my forearm.

“Nice tattoo.”

My skin breaks out into goosebumps, and I look down at where the pad of her finger is slowly pulling away from my arm. She’s pointing at a shitty stick-and-poke tattoo of an eight-ball my bunkmate gave me two years ago.

The tattoo is anything but nice.

The realization that she might be flirting with me hits me square in the jaw. I suddenly feel cornered between the wall and the dumpster next to me. I croak out a Thanks and avoid her gaze, hoping she’ll take a step back soon.

She lingers for a few seconds longer, watching me smoke.

“Anyway,” she says as she turns around. My eyes drop to her ass in her tight green pants. They fly back up before she looks at me over her shoulder. She shoots me a wink. “See you back in there.”

Everything is still too loud, too bright, too much.

But ever since the shared cigarette with Connie a few hours ago, I haven’t been able to keep my eyes off of her. I’ve memorized every toned curve on her lithe body from head to toe, and it’s made everything else a little more bearable.

I keep convincing myself that I’ve made everything up, but then I catch her staring at me from across the room, and it feels like there’s a fist squeezing my lungs into a tight ball.

I’m sitting at a table with my younger sister Sophia and baby brother Charlie. They’re the only other sober people here since they’re both underage—nineteen and thirteen, respectively.

Ozzy became their legal guardian three years ago when our dad died of liver failure.

None of us were shocked. He was an alcoholic and a piece of shit. Technically, our mother is still alive. I hear she’s out of prison, but no one has heard from her in years.

Sophia is listening to another one of Charlie’s weird tangents about the Vietnam War, which he’s been hyperfixated on since he watched Full Metal Jacket last year. I pretend to listen as I track Connie’s whereabouts around the restaurant.

“Wait, where you going?” Charlie squawks when he sees me stand up. “I haven’t gotten to the best part yet!”

“I’ll live.” I give him a condescending pat on the head, my eyes still on Connie, and his teeth narrowly miss my hand.

I see Ozzy near the bar with James and avoid their line of sight, not wanting to be pulled into a conversation. As inconspicuously as I can, I move to stand near the swinging kitchen doors, Connie just a few feet away.

She’s facing me, talking to someone whose name I didn’t bother remembering. Her eyes flick to me, then back to her friend. I try not to feel awkward just standing there, leaning against a table as casually as possible while my heart is racing.

I’m such a fucking idiot.

I’m about to bolt when I see Connie move away from her friend and slowly strut my way. I notice her quick glance toward James as if double-checking that we’re not being watched. My stomach twists into a knot at the implication.

“Hey,” she says softly.

“Hey,” I croak back, swiping a hand over my buzzed head before rubbing the back of my neck.

She studies me for a second, the music drowning us in bass, before curling a finger around the belt loop of my jeans and giving it a short tug. It’s quick, and her hand is off me just as fast, but I feel like I’m toppling over the edge of reason.

She smiles, her tongue pushing into her cheek.

“Follow me?”

My throat tightens, and I lose the ability to speak.

I swallow hard, my gaze locked with hers, and nod.