Chug it down.
Fill it again.
I have to drive home later, but that’s the least of my worries right now. The promise of oblivion has a certain gravitational pull that cannot be denied. Anything that might blunt the agony headed my way like a freight train.
How the hell am I supposed to face Jo sober?
Taking a fortifying gulp, I search for her. Frustration mounts as I walk through the house, moving from room to room, checking all her usual places and coming up short. Never a big fan of parties, she almost always winds up in some quiet corner or other, hiding out until we can leave.
Not tonight, it seems.
She’s not on the front porch, watering strangers’ plants. She’s not outside on a pool lounger, staring up at the stars. She’s not in the dark library, perusing the shelves. She’s not propped in the bed of my pickup truck, waiting on me to drive us home.
Where the fuck is she?
A fissure of concern fires through my nerve endings, but I tamp it down with another gulp of beer. Eventually, I find my way to the back of the house, where most of the still-conscious partygoers are congregated. Sienna is snorting white lines off the coffee table, flanked on either side by the Wadell twins. She doesn’t even look at me when I walk in.
In the adjacent kitchen area, half my teammates are playing pong. I wander their way, mouth opening to ask if anyone has seen Jo, but the words catch in my throat. She’s right there, in the most unexpected of places — leaning against the refrigerator with Ryan Shithead Snyder’s arm around her shoulders and a red cup in her hand.
I stop in my tracks.
The first thing that registers in my brain is how good she looks. No matter that I’ve seen her every day for as far back as I can remember, no matter that her face is more familiar than my own in the mirror. It slams into me, a fresh gut-punch each time.
In a kaleidoscope of skin-tight dresses and spray tans, she’s a pure ray of light — that blonde hair half falling out of its thick braid, her skin a pale glow in the dimmed light, those ridiculous cut-off shorts she thinks make her look like a tomboy but actually just highlight how her legs stretch on for miles. Over the years, I’ve spent more time fantasizing about those legs than I care to admit.
Dangling from our spot up in the rafters.
Running toward me down the boat dock.
Kicking in the crashing waves.
Wrapped around my waist as I piggyback her across the lawn.
The second thing that registers is that she’s drunk. Her eyes, those insane sky-blue eyes that always stare straight into my soul, are half-lidded. She’s leaning against the stainless steel fridge doors, looking unsteady on her feet. I have to fight the urge to race to her side, to hold her up.
Someone’s already there. Already doing it.
Already in my place.
Ryan, that fuckwit, says something that makes her giggle. She sways slightly off balance, and he uses the opportunity to pull her closer against his bare chest. My grip clenches so hard around my cup, I hear the plastic crackle in protest.
Son of a bitch.
Ryan’s hands are all over her, roaming with a familiarity that sets my teeth on edge. I watch his dumb fucking fingers twist in the fabric of her sweater and feel a volt of something unpleasant snake through me. I want to close the distance and rip them off her. Violently. I want to grab her by the hand and drag her away from here, away from him, even though I know that’s the absolute last thing I’m supposed to be doing tonight.
I can’t help it. Reason, common sense, intelligent thought… they all evaporated the instant I saw her. My feet are moving before I can stop them, heading for her like a magnet. To hell with the consequences.
I’m halfway across the kitchen when a hand clamps down on my shoulder and stops me in my tracks.
“Yooooo, Reyes!” Chris Tomlinson pounds my back hard enough to spill my beer, grinning like the Cheshire Cat. “The champ returns!”
Apparently, news of my conquest has spread through this party faster than mono. Annoying, if not entirely unexpected.
“So…” Tomlinson leans in, waggling his eyebrows. “How was she? Everything you imagined?”
“Lay off, Chris.”
“You scored, right?”
I don’t answer. I’m busy trying to see around him, to the other side of the kitchen where Jo is standing.
“Second? Third? Home run?” Chris pesters. “Don’t tell me you choked at the plate?”
Annoyance flickers through me. “I’m not talking about this with you.”
“Why so coy, Reyes?” He shoves me playfully. “I’m not getting any tonight, the least you can do is help a brother out with some details…”
Shouldering past him, I finally have a clear view of the refrigerator. Jo is no longer propped against it. She’s nowhere to be seen. Ryan, either.
Panic burns through me, a hot rush in my veins. My head swivels, searching the blur of faces in the kitchen. I think I catch a glimpse of her heading out the patio doors, but they swing back closed before I can be certain.
Dammit.
“Where are you going, Reyes?” Chris calls as I walk away.
I don’t even break stride. When it comes to my teammates, I’m far more interested in Ryan right now — specifically, what he’s doing with my best friend.
I’m reaching for the handle when the patio doors fly open in my face. Andy Hilton — certified idiot, but hell of an outfielder with a throwing arm like a young Babe Ruth — stumbles inside, marijuana smoke billowing around him in a cloud. His eyes are bloodshot. He’s grinning like a madman.
“Where’s Tomlinson?” he barks.
I jerk my head toward the kitchen. My impatience spikes higher with each second that slips by. I can’t stand not knowing where Jo is. Whether she’s all right.
Is seventeen too young for a heart attack?
“Come on, Reyes,” Andy says. Belatedly, I notice the net in his hand — the kind used for pond maintenance — and the flash of orange scales within. “You don’t want to miss this, I promise. Got a special delivery here, just for Chris…”
Jesus Christ.
Andy plows into the kitchen, leaving a wet trail from the doors to the island. Against my better judgment, I follow.
“Catch of the day!” he screams, upending the net onto the counter. The fish plops out, its eyes round as marbles, its mouth opening and closing in useless pursuit of air. It thrashes around like a seizure victim. Everyone leans in, mesmerized by the sight.
My eyes jerk toward Andy. “Dude, what the fuck?”
“Tomlinson bet me you couldn’t close the deal with Sienna,” he says gleefully, his eyes on Chris — who’s looking a little pale as he watches the fish squirm. “Since she already confirmed otherwise… it’s time for him to honor his wager.”
“It was a joke,” Chris says weakly, eyes still on the fish.
Andy snorts. “You’re only saying that because you lost.”
“What was the bet?” I ask, though I’m not entirely certain I want to know the answer.
Andy is all to happy to inform me. “Loser swallows a fish from the Park family pond.”
Chris shakes his head. “No. No way I’m doing this. I can’t.”
“Deal’s a deal, bro. ”