Total pages in book: 84
Estimated words: 79607 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 398(@200wpm)___ 318(@250wpm)___ 265(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 79607 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 398(@200wpm)___ 318(@250wpm)___ 265(@300wpm)
“What you need, sir, is a damn filter. And condoms. Lots of condoms.” I roll my eyes and cross one ankle over the other.
“And what you need is my d—” Before he’s able to finish what’s sure to be an inappropriate remark, the door opens and Dash and Asher walk in.
Holy. Shit.
He’s wearing black jeans—not skinny jeans, but more form-fitting than I’ve ever seen on him—with holes in the knees, a dark green V-neck that hugs his biceps, and his trusty black combat boots. His signature unruly hair is styled and pushed back off his forehead. He’s going out looking like that—meanwhile, I’m not old enough to get in even if I was invited.
That pang of anxiety about him going out morphs into pure, ugly jealousy. The kind that turns your stomach to lead and makes your ears hot. The thought of Asher hooking up with anyone, ever turns my stomach, but hooking up with someone three seconds after we slept together? That thought makes it hard to breathe, especially since he clearly wasn’t happy with what I had to offer.
Dash and Adrian jump into making plans for the night, but I don’t hear a word they say. I’m still stuck in my head when I finally look Asher in the eye, only to realize he’s staring at Adrian and me with narrowed eyes, looking more than a little suspicious. Lifting my head off Adrian’s shoulder, I stand, and he reflexively extends his hand to help me step over his outstretched legs while still in conversation with Dash.
“Briar,” Dash says my name, just as I’m about to turn down the hall toward my room. I pause, looking over my shoulder. “You okay?”
“Yep. I was a little disappointed over a boy.” I turn and aim a pointed look at Ash. “But he turned out to be kind of a douche, anyway.” Asher’s jaw ticks once, then he looks away.
“Jackson? The fuck did he do?” my brother says, instantly riled up.
“Not Jackson,” I’m quick to assure. He’s texted me here and there, but I haven’t responded. “It doesn’t matter anymore. I’m over it.”
Lie, lie, lie.
Not wanting to stick around for their inevitable pre-gaming, I stalk off to my room and text Nat.
Me: I need you.
Nat: Is this you finally coming out of the closet?
Me: Not today. When are you getting here?
Nat: Pulling up in 2.5.
Me: Tell me you brought alcohol.
Nat: Among other things…
Me: Low-key suspicious of your “other things,” but I love you anyway. Come straight to my room when you get here.
Five minutes later, Nat arrives, arms full of bags, looking frazzled.
“Damn, your brother looks good tonight,” she says, unloading different bottles and jars of things onto my long, white dresser. “I almost got pregnant just from walking past him.”
“I don’t think that’s how it works.” I laugh, picking up a jar of maraschino cherries. “What’s all this?”
“I jacked a bottle of vodka from my mom, then I decided to get fancy and googled different cocktails…” She digs her phone out of her shorts pocket and taps a few times before turning the screen for me to see. “I present to you…the Cherry Blossom.”
“God, yes. You are my favorite. Let’s take this party to the pool.”
I dig through my drawer full of bathing suits and pull out one in a peachy color for me, and toss a mint one in Nat’s direction. Some girls collect shoes or purses or jewelry. Arizona girls collect swimming suits for every occasion.
After getting changed, we grab the vodka, grenadine, cherries, and pink lemonade before heading to the kitchen to get cups and ice. As I’m filling our glasses, Dash and Adrian appear.
“We’re leaving,” Dash says, eying our little setup. “Lock the door behind us and do not get drunk if you’re going to be swimming alone.” He points a stern finger in my direction and then Nat’s, making sure we’re both clear.
“Yes, Dad,” I say, barely containing my eye roll. The hypocrite’s favorite pastime is drinking and swimming.
“Hey, Natalia,” Adrian says, looking her up and down. “Do you have any Mexican in you?”
“No. I’m fucking Italian,” she scoffs.
“Do you want some?” He wiggles his brows, and I bust out laughing. Nat rolls her eyes, but she’s unable to smother her grin.
I look back to Adrian, expecting to see his perpetually amused smile, but instead, he looks uncomfortable and maybe even a little pissed off. And he’s staring directly over my shoulder.
I hear Asher’s boots slapping against the tile floor, but what I don’t expect to hear is a pair of decidedly feminine footsteps click-clacking behind his. I turn, moving in slow motion like something out of a horror movie. Except this is real life and so much worse. Whitley is, once again, in my fucking house. Dark hair, sleek and parted down the middle, flat ironed to perfection. Pale breasts pushed up to her chin. My smile melts away.