Page 25 of Second Position (Astor Hill #2)

Grant

I resent this night already, knowing Gen will be there but that I won’t be able to be with her the way I want. It’s getting worse—the way I find myself needing to hear her voice, see a text from her, feel her. I’ve anticipated the temptation she will be to me tonight, all day.

And now there’s this: me pulling Andy’s passenger door open, the dark tint of his window having completely obscured Will Chapman from my view.

Fuck me .

The sight of him has me wishing seven years of bad luck on Ben and the shop still working on my truck as I slam the door in his face, hurrying myself into the back bench of Andy’s car.

It’s a tight squeeze, and I contemplate getting out and calling for an Uber, but Andy’s already hurtling down the road.

“Look what the fucking cat dragged in,” Will slurs, and I just see the back of his head slowly shaking right to left. If it weren’t for his lazy speech, I’d have assumed Andy spilled rubbing alcohol all over his interior .

“Thanks for grabbing me. Ben ghosted me,” I say, ignoring Will and trying to sound grateful, rolling down my window only to close it after the first aggressive gust of icy air. Will mutters something under his breath, shifting in his seat as he messes with the aux cord.

“Classic Ben,” Will mutters beneath his breath.

“Guess everyone’s getting stranded tonight,” Andy says behind a tight smile, not saying anything else, and I picture Liv kicking Will to the curb, the satisfaction pulling a smile on my lips.

“What the fuck are you smiling about?” Will’s gaze settles on me in the rearview mirror and Andy tenses as he fixes his eyes on the road.

I clench my jaw like the force of it will help me keep my mouth shut, reminding myself that he’s not worth it—he never has been.

But he’s the entire reason I can’t scoop Gen in my arms tonight, and even if I can’t blame him for that outright, I can rub some salt in whatever wound he’s been nursing with too much liquor.

“Just imagining Liv calling you out. That’s all.” I don’t look away when I say it, finding too much satisfaction in the anger that flashes in his gaze. But it’s just anger—not surprise, or embarrassment, or shame—just anger. Like he knows he’s a shitbag, just doesn’t want me telling him.

But then that anger morphs into something smug as he slyly grins at me, cocking his head to the side like I’m a kid about to be told about Santa Clause, and my stomach flips.

“Liv’s meeting me there,” he starts, amusement lacing his expression.

“Gen didn’t tell you we were going together, did she?

” The words twist in my gut, her name out of his mouth fueling my irritation, but I realize that means she’s the one who left him.

“I thought you guys were so close now.” Bitterness coats his voice, and I like that it bothers him. Like that he knows she isn’t all his .

“Well, you’re not going together, now are you?”

“You told her about the bet though, right?” he hits back, and I want to knock the smirk off his face. “Thought you weren’t playing my games , Fielder.”

“Weird you keep remembering that,” I say, trying to play it off. All the while, dread coils in my stomach, the fear that he’ll twist this slowly creeping up my spine. “I barely do,” I lie.

“Yeah, well I pay more attention than you think. Especially when it comes to Genny.” The way his jaw ticks tells me I’m not the only one whose fist is itching to make contact.

My laugh rattles out of me as I consider just how much she would hate me if Will showed up with a black eye, and Andy catches the thought on my face.

“Oh–kay, let’s just take a breath,” Andy cuts in, the city lights coming into view, “and remember that my car is not a boxing ring.” He clears his throat, turning the radio up so loud we’d have to yell over the music to hear each other.

So we fume the rest of the way in silence, save for some moody folk song I’ve never heard of.

I slide out of the car without a glance at either of them when Andy parks, making a mental note to find him before the night is over to guilt the shit out of him.

And when a cocktail waiter saunters by me with a tray of champagne I swipe one off, downing the contents in a single swig.

I breathe in the jumble of overpriced scents effusing the air, noting that my favorite one isn’t in it, and head to the balcony to look for her.

It’s still all I want—to see her, even more so now that I assume she and Will got into an argument.

But they were coming here together.

It shouldn’t fill me with so much worry, especially because while she’s slowly becoming everything to me, I know that’s not how it is for her.

This silent expectation I have, that she could want me more than she wants him, is eating me from the inside out.

And yet, I’m raking through the meandering heads around me in order to find the one with those rich, soft curls, searching for the shoulders I’ve become obsessed with running my hands over.

Focusing on the melodic plucking of the harpist, I try to remember that my only real purpose in being here tonight is securing donors for the athletics program.

I mentally force the objective to the front of my mind, try to use it to suppress my need to know what happened between her and Will that made him so defensive, so possessive, over her.

I see Ben talking to one of the alumni wives and he clocks me right away, joining me with an apologetic, crooked smile on his face as we lean against the balcony.

I give him the third degree, trying my best to downplay any residual angst I have over my car ride, and in typical Ben fashion, he picks up on nothing .

Isn’t even alarmed by the idea of Will and I riding together.

The only part that catches his notice is that Olivia wasn’t with Will.

If he were to ask me, I’d tell him he has no business being around her so much. But he hasn’t, and I have too much of my own shit going on to get involved with his.

“I better head down there and do some schmoozing,” I tell him, desperate to find the only person here worth my time.

First it’s Coach who finds me and pulls me into a conversation with a few of the alumni who were successfully drafted in the recent years. And I appreciate it, see him trying to support me in my draft bid, but all I can think about is if she’s okay.

Donors approach me one after another, mostly to talk about Fielder Foods, clearly trying to get in through me, and I’m unable to extract myself from them without looking like a dick.

It’s the “Cupid Shuffle” I ultimately have to thank; when the bass notes filter through the air, everyone swarms to the dance floor, the lines quickly taking form without any outside direction.

I take advantage, walking toward the lobby to get a better view of the venue and hopefully Gen, when I feel a hand land on my shoulder.

I tense a little, preparing my best smile for another deep-pocketed guest, only to find Jean.

“Thank god.” I huff out a laugh in relief. “You haven’t seen Gen, have you?” In my efforts to appear casual, I instead sound pathetic.

His hand flies to his heart though, and he looks at me like I just rescued a puppy.

“You really are one of the good ones, aren’t you? I was just trying to find you, actually. She could use your company,” he says, looking more solemn than I think I’ve ever seen him. He nods his head down the lobby hallway. “She walked that way a little while ago.”

I don’t even answer, just utilize the length of my legs to catch up to where she could’ve gone.

It doesn’t take me long to spot her now.

The black silk she’s draped in pools on the floor where she stands at one of the doors left open, the cool air blowing the curls that have escaped her updo also brushing across her bare shoulders.

The sides of her coat peek out from behind her frame, like she’s clutching it to her chest instead of just putting it on.

She’s so cold when I gently rest my hand on her shoulder, and I wouldn’t be shocked if she cringed away from the sudden warmth.

Instead, she melts into it, turning around to face me with glassy, red rimmed eyes.

“You’re gonna catch a cold,” I murmur, tucking a curl behind her ear. I want to do more, warm her with my hands, feel her for the first time in weeks, but the way she glances down the hallway has me refraining.

“That’s a myth,” she slightly slurs, the smallest smile tugging at her lips as she relents, wrapping her arms tightly around herself.

“This where you been?” Something in her gaze shifts when I ask it, and I wonder how badly I’m misreading this that she thinks I wouldn’t look for her in every room.

“I was at the bar. With Liv.” She sniffles invisible tears away as she says it, her breath shuddering.

I no longer care if he’s watching or if he sees.

I grab her hand and usher her down the hallway, relieved when she lets me guide her, and pull us through the first open door I can find.

I fumble around for a light switch, only for Gen to yank on the pull chain.

A row of mops and buckets come into view, the strong astringent smell making more sense.

Under the single light fixture, the exhaustion in her smile is more pronounced, but so is the relief I find there, and the anxiety that took hold of my heart the moment Jean insinuated she needed me starts to wane.

“My dad was a night janitor—before he got sick. To subsidize his daytime, musician escapades.” A small glimmer of her usual self starts shining through when she mentions him, just like it did at the beach.

“What did he play?”