If he heard Kennedy call me that, he knows about Amelia.
Fuck.
MY PHONE RINGS SHORTLY after two in the morning. I groan as I roll over and grab it off the nightstand. Carter Trayland's name flashes across the screen. I consider not answering, but for him to call me at this hour, it has to be for a reason. And if it's not, I'll punch him right in that pretty boy face of his.
“This better be good, Trayland,” I answer groggily.
He chuckles into the phone. “Aw, did I wake Sleeping Beauty?”
“Fuck off and tell me what you want. I'm not in the mood for your shit.”
“You're feisty in the middle of the night,” he quips. “I like it.”
Without hesitation, I hang up and drop the phone on my stomach. Only a couple seconds go by before it's ringing again. Despite wanting to throw it across the room, I take a deep breath and answer it.
“You hung up on me!” he pretends to whine.
I snort. “I did, and if you don't stop being such a chick and tell me why you're calling me, I'm going to do it again.”
He exhales heavily. “Only using me for my intel. I get it. You never truly loved me.”
“Trayland!”
“Okay, okay,” he laughs. “I just figured you'd want to know your girl is here, and she's pretty wasted.”
At the sound of his words, I sit up. “Amelia's drunk?”
Carter snickers. “I didn't even have to say who I was talking about.”
I swear to God, I'm going to kill this prick. “Fuck off.”
“Hey, I just call it like I see it,” he argues. “But if you want her, you better come get her. She's currently a little too close to Mason Lockhart.”
“For fucks' sake,” I grumble, pulling a shirt on and grabbing my keys. “Isn't Easton there?”
“I think so, but he disappeared upstairs with some other blonde.”
Kennedy, which means she doesn't even have her roommate looking after her right now. “Okay, I'll be right there.” Just before I hang up the phone, I stop. “Carter?”
“Yeah?”
“Thanks.”
He hums. “No problem.”
THE PARTY IS AT the biggest frat house on campus. Mason's frat house, to be specific. People fill both the inside and the outside, with some students even puking or passed out in the lawn. I'm surprised the cops haven't been here yet to shut this place down.
I throw the car into park and jump out. I don't know whether it's the look on my face or the fact that they're drunk enough to be paranoid, but everyone jumps out of my way as I storm inside. It only takes me a second before I find her.
Trayland was right. Amelia is clearly shitfaced, and chivalrous Mason is helping by putting his hands on her hips to keep her upright as she sways.
“They look cozy,” Carter says, appearing next to me.
I'm sure he's got some sarcastic smirk on his face, but I can't look away from Amelia to find out.
“You scored points tonight. Don't make me take those away.”
He chuckles and murmurs something else, but all my attention is zoned in on Mason as he tucks a strand of hair behind Amelia's ear. She leans into his touch, and just like that, I've seen enough.
I push my way through the remaining students on my way over to them.
“Come on, Amelia,” I tell her. “We're leaving.”
Mason pulls her closer to him. “Do we have a problem, Bronsyn?”
“No, but we're going to if you don't take your fucking hands off her,” I spit.
Amelia turns and narrows her eyes on me. “Go away, Zayn.”
“Not a chance,” I laugh dryly. “You're coming with me. Let's go.”
She squares her shoulders. “I'm not going anywhere with you.”
I bite my lip and step closer. “Either you walk out that door with me, or I'll carry your ass out.”
“You wouldn't,” she challenges.
In one swift move, I grab her and throw her over my shoulder. She shrieks, but then she's nothing but giggles as I start walking toward the door.
“Sorry,” she calls back to Mason. “He's the jealous type.”
Carter follows me out of the house and opens the passenger door of my car so I can put her inside. Once she's in the seat, I slam it closed and watch as she slumps down, pouting like a child. As I pass Carter, I put out my fist and he bumps it with his own.
Somewhere in the five-minute drive back to her dorm, Amelia falls asleep. I carefully slip my hand into her pocket and pull out her key before I lift her into my arms. Even as dead weight, she's light as a feather. Her arms instinctively wrap around my neck and her head leans against my chest.
I manage to unlock the door and carry her up the two flights of stairs to her dorm without waking her. As I get into her room, I lay her down in bed and reluctantly remove her arms from my neck. She stirs for a second before rolling over.
Removing her uncomfortable yet sexy as hell heels, I take a blanket from the end of the bed and drape it over her. Then, like I have a fucking knack for doing things I shouldn't, I bend down and kiss her forehead.
I'm almost out the door when I hear it. Mumbled little words, spoken in her sleep with no actual recollection of what she's saying, but clear as fucking day.
“Love you, Zaynie.”
ALL NIGHT, I TOSS and turn before finally giving up on sleep entirely around five in the morning. Amelia's drunken sleep confession played through my head all damn night, on a loop I couldn't seem to stop.
It's not like I can do anything about it. Regardless of how she feels about me—how I feel about her even—the circumstances are still the same. If she knew the choice she was making, she would choose differently. I'm sure of it.
All I know right now is that I'm pumped full of frustration, and I need to get it out—before I hunt down Mason Lockhart and kill him for trying to take advantage of Amelia last night.
I throw on a pair of sweats and grab my water bottle before heading to the gym. Beating the shit out of a punching bag has to be the next best thing to beating a douchebag quarterback, right?
And as my phone vibrates in the middle of my workout and Blade's name appears, I press ignore and hit the bag harder.
Whoever—Kennedy—thought I would make a good bartender, obviously didn't think about how clumsy I am. She must have completely wiped from her memory the time I almost took her out with a stack of boxes. While the club is fun, and we're having a great time together, I think I've spilled at least five drinks and broken enough glasses to negate all of tonight's tips.
"Oh, relax," she tells me. "You're doing fine."
I roll my eyes. "That's easy for you to say. When did you get so good at this?"
She shrugs. "I spent my childhood making money by bartending at my parents' parties. It's amazing how much drunk people will tip a kid."
For some reason, none of that surprises me. But that does nothing to help the fact that I'm completely uncoordinated.
I walk down to the other side of the bar, where a guy is leaning against it, looking impatient.