Page 9
Wyatt
Claudia: Party tonight at Alpha Nu. You coming?
I stare at the message, my thumb hovering over the keyboard, debating my response.
It’s been two days since I stormed over to Zane’s house and told him to stay the hell out of my business. Two days of pretending I didn’t replay every second of that night in my head. Of convincing myself that seeing him with his jaw tight and his eyes dark with something I couldn’t quite decipher didn’t affect me.
And now, I have a choice.
Tatum already invited me to go to The End Zone with her, Reed, their roommates, and their girlfriends. A casual, easy night out. But I knew what that really meant—Zane would be there.
And as much as I’d love to kick back and sip on overpriced drinks with my friends, I also loved the thought of blowing it off and hitting up Alpha Nu’s party instead. A not-so-subtle fuck you to the one person I shouldn’t care about anymore.
Word would get back to him. It always did.
Colter would disapprove, of course. He’d be pissed if he knew I was even considering it. He’s never liked Claudia, not since last year at Greencastle when she ditched me without a ride. Not a real friend , he’d said. You should drop her.
And maybe he wasn’t wrong.
Girl code says you don’t leave your friends stranded, but Claudia tends to get lost in her own world, especially when a guy’s involved. She apologized a hundred times, insisting she thought I was catching a ride with Tatum and Reed, but I still remember standing outside that party, cold and furious, debating if I should believe her.
In the end, I let it go. Because the alternative was admitting I didn’t have many people to fall back on.
The driver slows at a stoplight, the same intersection where I ran into Zane last week.
I glance down at my outfit—black lace bodysuit tucked into dark denim jeans and knee-high boots giving me just enough height to feel confident. My curls are styled in that perfectly undone way, though it took twenty minutes of fighting the frizz to make it look like I’d just run my fingers through it.
I swipe my tongue over my lip gloss, checking my reflection in my compact as the Uber rolls to a stop outside the brown brick house with white pillars.
If I’m going to do this, I might as well look damn good doing it.
I fire off a quick “I’m here” text to Claudia and slip a tip to the driver before climbing out of the back seat. The October air bites at my skin, sharp and cool, sending a shiver down my spine as the wind kicks up around me.
“Wyatt?”
My name cuts through the hum of music and drunken laughter just as I reach the steps of the Alpha Nu house. The yard is already littered with people—some smoking, others swaying to the bass thumping from inside.
I sidestep a couple sprawled out on the steps, tangled together like they’re the only two people here. Judging by the way she’s straddling his lap, lips pressed to his neck, I don’t think they’d notice if the whole damn house caught fire.
Claudia’s heels click against the pavement as she hurries toward me, her wide grin flashing under the dim porch light.
“I’m so frickin’ happy you’re here,” she shouts over the music, grabbing my arm like she’s afraid I might change my mind and bolt. “Robbie and the guys don’t have a game tomorrow, so the whole team is here.”
She waggles her brows like that’s supposed to excite me.
I force a polite smile, but internally? Yeah, no thanks. Been there, done that.
Football players are nothing but walking red flags with six-packs and charming smiles. I’ve spent enough time around my brother and his teammates to know exactly how that story ends. Throw in the athletes I’ve followed in the media, the ones I’ve written articles about for the Braysen Gazette , and let’s just say… I’m officially done with athletes.
Maybe I should go for a blue-collar guy. Someone steady. Hardworking. Dependable. Loyal.
Or maybe I should just stay single and enjoy the selection while I’m in college.
Claudia doesn’t give me time to dwell on it, tugging me up the stairs and through the front door like she’s on a mission.
Inside, the air is thick with the scent of sweat, booze, and bad decisions. “Humble” by Kendrick Lamar rattles the walls, vibrating through my chest as we push through the sea of bodies packed from wall to wall.
Claudia laces her fingers through mine, pulling me deeper into the house, past a group gathered around two long folding tables where a heated game of beer pong is going down.
I already know where we’re headed—the kitchen. That’s where the liquor is.
I could use a shot. Or five. Anything to loosen me up. Anything to stop the overthinking.
Claudia doesn’t waste time, pouring a drink from one of the open bottles on the counter for both of us. She hands me a plastic cup filled with something red and fruity, barely masking the heavy pour of vodka underneath.
I take a sip, feeling the heat of the alcohol spread through my chest. My phone vibrates against my hip.
I could ignore it. Should ignore it.
But my fingers are already wrapping around the device, pulling it from my pocket.
The second I see the name flash across the screen, my pulse skips.
Zane: You coming to The End Zone tonight?
Before I can even process the first message, another text rolls in. Then another. My stomach tightens.
Zane: You can ride with me if you want.
Zane: Never mind. Your lights are off, so you must already be there.
Why the hell would he think I’d want a ride from him? So he can hover over me all night, watching my every move, ready to dissect and criticize everything I do?
I scoff under my breath and shove my phone back into my pocket. Not tonight.
“Everything okay?” Claudia shouts over the music, her gaze sweeping over me.
“Yeah,” I say, forcing a nod before lifting my drink. “Just need a refill.”
Her grin spreads wide, and she raises her own cup, mirroring me. “Now that’s what I like to hear.”
We throw back the last of our drinks in unison, the burn of alcohol trailing fire down my throat, leaving a pleasant hum in its wake. It’s working—loosening the tight coil of frustration in my chest, making the weight of Zane’s texts a little easier to ignore.
A couple of refills later, and we’re fully in the party spirit, laughter bubbling as we dive into a round of beer pong. Luca slides up beside me, flashing his signature cocky grin, and volunteers as my partner.
The loud game is chaotic and filled with taunts and cheers. I’m just tipsy enough not to care when we lose the first round to Claudia and Robbie. We demand a rematch, and this time, we win. The alcohol is hitting harder now, a comfortable buzz settling in, making everything feel a little lighter, a little more fun.
I take a step back, deciding to sit out the next game, my body already warm from the liquor. Luca and Robbie face off against two of their teammates while Claudia and I perch on the edge of the breakfast bar, cheering them on between sips.
My phone vibrates again.
I ignore it at first, resisting the pull to check—but when the next buzz lasts longer, I know it’s a call.
Sliding the phone halfway out of my pocket, I glance at the screen. My stomach drops.
Shit.
A gasp slips from my lips before I can stop it.
“What?” Claudia’s attention snaps to me, and she narrows her eyes. “What’s wrong?”
I don’t answer. My pulse kicks up as I hop down from the counter, gripping my phone tighter. I hesitate for half a second before hitting the green button, lifting it to my ear as I push through the crowd.
“Hold on!” I shout over the music, nodding quickly at Claudia when she calls after me. “It’s fine. I’ll be right back.”
She doesn’t look convinced, but I wave her off, pointing over my shoulder toward the sliding glass doors leading to the backyard.
I don’t even know what I’m walking into, but one thing is for sure—I suddenly don’t feel drunk anymore.
The second I step outside, the night air hits me—cool, crisp, and laced with the distant scent of bonfire smoke. I barely register it before Zane’s voice booms through the phone, my name sharp and demanding.
“Where the hell are you?”
I lift the phone back to my ear, rolling my eyes. “Why are you calling me?”
“Don’t answer my question with a question, Wyatt. Tell me where you are.”
A slow smirk tugs at my lips. He sounds pissed. Good.
I snicker, just to push him further, and the low growl that rumbles through the line tells me it worked.
“I think you’ve once again forgotten that you’re not the boss of me,” I taunt, leaning against the wooden railing. “I don’t have to do what you say, and I sure as hell don’t have to follow your rules.”
“Wyatt.” His voice drops deep and rough in a dangerous warning. The way he says my name sends a shiver down my spine. “Quit fuckin’ with me and tell me where you are. I’m coming to get you.”
“What? No, you’re not.” I laugh, shaking my head even though he can’t see me. “Absolutely not.”
“Yes, I am,” he bites out with no hesitation. “And so help me God, if you tell me you’re in Keaton, I’ll walk in that fuckin’ house, throw you over my shoulder, and haul your ass out.”
My breath catches, my grip tightening around the phone. “You wouldn’t fuckin’ dare.”
“Try me.” His voice is pure steel, and I know he means it. “Now tell me where you are, or I’m about to walk back inside The End Zone and round up the guys to come with me.”
I groan, pressing my fingers to my temples. “You’re so ridiculous, you know that? Why the hell do you even care what I do?”
There’s a beat of silence, heavy and telling. When he speaks again, it’s almost guttural.
“You’re drunk, aren’t you?” A hard exhale follows. “I can tell you are.”
I don’t answer. I don’t have to.
“I’m on my way,” he mutters, and I can hear movement in the background—keys jangling and a door slamming. “I’ll be there in twenty minutes, thirty tops. You better have your sweet ass sitting on that fuckin’ bench, or I swear to God, Wyatt, I will walk in there and carry you out myself.”
His next words land like a warning. A threat laced with something darker, something I’m not ready to name.
“Don’t tempt me, Firecracker. Because I don’t think you’ll like what you see if you do.”
The call disconnects, and I pull the phone from my ear, staring at the screen in disbelief.
Call Ended.
My mouth parts, my breath coming a little too fast. A shiver runs down my spine, but it’s not from the cool night air. Heat pools low in my belly, twisting in ways I don’t want to acknowledge.
Zane being possessive should not turn me on as much as it does. But damn.
I’ve never seen this side of him before—the sharp edge in his voice, the unyielding authority, and the way he spoke about me like I was his problem to deal with.
Colter has always been overprotective. He’d threaten to show up if he thought I was in trouble, but he sure as hell wouldn’t talk about me and my “sweet ass” in the way Zane just had.
The image flashes through my mind—Zane storming into the house, eyes dark with warning, gripping my wrist and hauling me out like he owns me. My stomach flips, and I swear I can still hear the raw command in his voice.
I hate myself a little for how much I want to call his bluff.
The backyard is nearly empty now, save for the string lights glowing along the sidewalk, casting long shadows against the grass. Music still thuds from inside, but the temptation to go back in fades. The alcohol is settling deep, making everything hazy, but one thought cuts through it all. I want to go home.
With a sigh, I pull out my phone and text Claudia.
Me: Something came up. Zane’s giving me a ride home.
She won’t question it. She doesn’t know everything, but she knows enough—that whenever Zane is around, it’s never just simple.
I hate that he still has this hold over me.
Before I even slip my phone back into my pocket, it vibrates again. I expect a message from Claudia, but it’s not.
Zane: Two minutes. Be outside.
A mix of irritation and anticipation tightens in my chest.
I push to my feet, brushing the dirt from my jeans before following the glow of the sidewalk, weaving my way through the yard. As I reach the front, headlights sweep across the driveway. The deep rumble of an engine pierces the night, drawing attention from the scattered groups outside.
Heads turn.
And then Zane climbs out.
The streetlight catches the sharp angles of his face and the way his jaw ticks as his gaze locks on me.
Even across the yard, I feel it—the weight of him and the barely restrained frustration.
And something else.
Something I’m too afraid to name.
“Wyatt Vaughn.” Zane’s voice slices through the night, sharp and commanding, and I roll my eyes at his use of my full name.
He rounds the front of the car, his movements deliberate and controlled. But there’s a fire behind his gaze, burning hot as he stops in front of me and yanks open the passenger door.
I don’t move.
His eyes drop, skimming over the lace bodysuit hugging my curves, the black bra underneath barely concealed by the delicate fabric. It’s high-necked, but the sheer material leaves little to the imagination.
I see it—the quick inhale, the way his fingers twitch at his side, how his jaw tenses like he’s trying his hardest not to react.
Normally, I might feel self-conscious under his scrutiny. But tonight? I know exactly what I look like.
I feel hot. I feel damn good.
And judging by the way his throat bobs as he swallows, Zane agrees.
I stop just short of him, tilting my head, waiting for him to speak first.
His nostrils flare. “How much have you had to drink?”
I grin, stepping closer, the alcohol in my system making me bold. “Why?” My voice drops, teasing, my fingers ghosting along the fabric of his shirt. “Are you jealous?”
Something flashes in his eyes—something dark and unreadable. The kind of look that has my stomach flipping and my heart pounding harder than I’d like to admit.
This time, when he says my name, it’s softer. Less of an order. More of a plea.
Say it , I think. Admit it. Give me something.
I press my palm against his chest, feeling the steady, hard thump of his heart beneath my fingers. The heat of him seeps through the fabric of his shirt, and for a second, he doesn’t move.
Then he covers my hand with his, strong fingers curling around my wrist, his grip firm but careful.
“Quit trying to push my buttons, Wyatt.” His voice is strained. “Get in the car before I toss you in there myself.”
The warning in his tone sends a shiver down my spine, but I don’t give him the satisfaction of knowing that.
Instead, I exhale sharply, shaking my head as disappointment settles heavy in my chest.
Just when I think his walls are starting to come down, he shoves them right back up.
“Just once,” I mutter, my voice barely above a whisper. “Just once, I wish you’d be honest with yourself and say what you truly mean.”
I don’t know if he heard me. If he did, he didn’t react. He just waits, unmoving, until I finally climb into the seat and reach for my seat belt.
He slams the door shut.
Without a word, he starts the engine, but his grip on the steering wheel is tight enough that his knuckles turn white, tension radiating off him in waves.
I don’t need him to say anything.
Maybe this—his silence, the way his jaw flexes, and the way he refuses to look at me—is the answer.
Maybe it always has been.