Chapter 10
CHAPTER TEN
RAINE
W ith a yawn, I cover my mouth and roll onto my side. It’s morning. It has to be. Light filters in around the blinds while voices seep beneath the closed bedroom door. As my brain tries to register where I am and what I’m doing here, I rub at the corner of my eye, then sit up, letting the wrinkled sheets fall to my lap. Memories of last night flood my senses as I smack my parched lips together, wincing in discomfort.
Right. The party. The fight. The drive home. The hit to the face. The shower.
I blink the sleep from my eyes and look around the room. Everett’s bed is empty. Er, Griffin’s bed? It doesn’t matter. He’s gone. Something squeezes in my stomach, and I slip out of the covers, finding the ointment from last night resting on the nightstand along with a bright orange sticky note.
Put this on your lip. It’ll help it heal so it doesn’t split again. I went to the gym with the guys. Be back soon. Don’t leave. - Everett
He left me a note?
He left me a note.
My fingers trace his blocky, masculine handwriting before I set the Post-It back on the nightstand and apply the ointment to my lip. It doesn’t sting as much this time, but my nose still wrinkles when I run my finger along the damage, realizing how swollen I am. Yeah. This isn’t going away any time soon.
Great.
The ground is cold against my bare feet as I pad toward the dresser closest to the window, finding my clothes folded neatly on top of the wood surface. Everett must’ve done it. Searching the pocket of my jeans, I open my phone, and my heart lodges itself in my throat.
One hundred and two missed calls. Seventy-one voicemails. Ninety-seven texts. Pretty sure Drake broke his all-time record.
Hands shaking, I set my phone back on my clothes, refusing to read any of his messages. He must be furious.
Not your problem, Raine.
With a deep breath, I force myself to keep the phone where it is, turn around, and tiptoe toward the hallway. The voices are a little louder now, and when I round the corner to the kitchen, my heels dig into the ground.
“Oh. Hi,” a girl greets me. Her hair is long and dark, and even though her eyes are a few shades grayer than Everett’s baby blues, I have no doubt she’s Everett’s sister. His little sister, if I had to guess. The girl’s short and curvy and beautiful. She strides toward me and offers her hand. “I’m Finley. Nice to meet you.”
Accepting her hand, I shake it once. “Raine. Hi.”
“Hi,” she repeats. “This is Dylan.” She motions to a gorgeous blonde with black-framed glasses and a bowl of Reese's Puffs cereal at the kitchen table, then points to the strawberry-blonde bombshell beside her. “And this is Ophelia.”
“Or Lia,” Ophelia adds. “Nice to meet you. ”
I give her a small wave. “You, too.”
“Do you want any coffee?” she asks.
“Uh…”
“Take a seat, I’ll grab you some,” Finley interjects. “Do you like sugar or cream?”
“Uh, both, please,” I reply, sitting across from the girls I’ve literally never seen in my entire life. Scratch that. My gaze narrows as I study Dylan carefully. “Do I know you?”
“I’m pretty sure we saw each other after the Hawks game when you came looking for my boyfriend.” When I blanch, she laughs. “Dude, you’re totally fine. Don’t stress.”
“I didn’t know he was unavailable.”
“Don’t worry. I know why you were looking for him,” she replies carefully. “Speaking of which…” Her attention drops to my swollen mouth. “How are you feeling?”
My tongue drags against the damage on instinct, and I flinch then gently rub my lips together as if it’ll hide the evidence from last night. “I’m, uh, I’m fine. Thanks.”
They’re not idiots. They know I’m far from fine, but the girls have enough social prowess not to call me out for my bullshit. It makes me like them even more.
“So, tell us about yourself,” Ophelia says while Finley continues rummaging through the kitchen cabinets. “Where are you from?”
“I grew up right outside Lockwood Heights and moved to Cedar Springs a little while ago,” I answer.
“Are you going to school at Grove University?”
I shake my head. “No, I’m actually apprenticing at a tattoo studio.”
Ophelia’s eyes widen. “Seriously? Don’t tell my boyfriend, but I’ve been dying to get a tattoo.”
“You should check out my dad’s work. He's amazing.”
“Aww, is he the one teaching you?” Dylan asks.
I shake my head. “Actually, no. I thought about it, but…I ki nd of felt guilty, I guess. Like it would make me a nepo baby or something.”
A nepo baby is someone who becomes famous by riding on their parents’ coattails. Usually, it’s directed toward actors or celebrities, but considering my circumstances and who my dad is, the term still fits. Drake’s words come back to me from when I first mentioned my interest in working at my dad’s tattoo shop, Etch ‘N’ Ink. He scoffed, saying I was better than a free pass, suggesting I check out the tattoo parlor across the street from our apartment to see if anyone would be willing to work with me. By some miracle, Lucian took me on as an apprentice, and I haven’t looked back.
“Working with your dad wouldn’t make you a nepo baby,” Dylan argues. “And even if it did, only your talent will get you clients. Not your dad’s.”
“Dylan’s right,” Ophelia agrees. “And if I actually decide to take the plunge, I’ll be happy to be your first client.”
Steam swirls in the air as Finley sets a mug in front of me, then leans her hip against the edge of the table. “Speaking of first clients, tell us what you think about my brother because he is clearly smitten.”
“Smitten?” Dylan scoffs. “What are we? From the fifteenth century?”
“Hey, there’s nothing wrong with being smitten,” Finley argues. “I want to be smitten, and I sure as shit want the guy I end up with to be smitten, too.”
“You’re saying Drew isn’t smitten?” Ophelia pipes up, though I have no idea who she’s talking about.
“My boyfriend’s plenty smitten,” Finley argues.
Ah. Drew’s the boyfriend. Got it.
“And we aren’t talking about me and Drew,” Finley adds, “we’re talking about our new friend, Raine”—she waves her hand toward me—“and my big brother. So?” She bats her lashes at me, not so patiently waiting for my response .
I’m not sure what she expects me to say. Everett’s…Everett. I don’t know him. Not really. I know he plays hockey. I know he’s good. I know he has a little sister who’s a bit pushy but nice. I know he’s protective. And I know he’s kind because only a kind person would leave their house in the middle of the night to pick up a stranger on the side of the road and offer them a place to sleep with no questions asked. Okay, technically, he did ask a question or two, but?—
“Hmm?” Finley prods.
With a shrug, I offer, “Your brother’s really…nice.”
“And?”
I tug on the hem of…yup, I’m still wearing Everett’s shirt in the middle of his kitchen while surrounded by his sister and her friends. Perfect. I stop fidgeting with the soft cotton and clear my throat. “I don’t know what else you want me to say.”
“Are you guys like…officially fake dating, or…whatever?” Ophelia asks.
“Uh…” I shrug again, surprised by how much they know and how bold they are. I can’t decide if I’m impressed or offended, but I’m not sure it matters. Their friend and brother is helping me. Helping me more than he knows, and likely, more than he wants to. “We haven’t really talked about it,” I hedge.
“Well, after the chaos from last night, I’d say you probably should be officially faking dating. At least until your ex gets bored or something,” Finley offers.
My brows pull as I take a sip of my coffee. Drake? Bored? Yeah, I don’t see that happening, which means I’m screwed. How the hell am I going to get out of this? And the fact she said ex? As in…it’s over? Hardly. He hit me, then kicked me out of his car. That’s it. Which means this mess is far from being cleaned up.
“What is it?” Ophelia prods .
“Hmm?” I ask.
“You’re making a face.”
Setting my mug back on the table, I lick my bottom lip and wince. “It’s…well, you said ex.”
“Yeah?” Finley answers.
“We haven’t officially broken up.”
The girls exchange glances, each of them grimacing. “Well, shit.”
I laugh. “My thoughts exactly.”
“Has he tried contacting you yet?”
I nod, thinking back to my phone still resting on the dresser in Everett’s room. “Only about three—no, four—hundred times.”
Ophelia’s eyes pop. “Four hundred times? Are you serious?”
“Yeah. I should probably turn it off.”
I start to stand, but Ophelia stops me. “Girl, four hundred is like a major red flag.”
“Yeah, so is hitting her,” Finley quips.
“Finley!” Dylan scolds.
“I’m just saying,” Finley defends, looking at me again. “I hope you break up with him with a text. He doesn’t deserve an actual phone call, and I wouldn’t be face-to-face with him ever after the way he hurt you last night.”
She’s right. How am I supposed to see him again? How am I supposed to break things off? The first time ended with a major blow up and an extra bottle of foundation. Now, with Everett involved? Drake will kill me.
I rub at my tired eyes when the door from the garage opens. One half-naked hockey player after another enters the kitchen. Muscles upon muscles. Tan skin. Low slung joggers. My lips part, and my jaw threatens to unhinge.
I gulp and stare into the caramel liquid in my cup, blindsided by all the gorgeous male specimens walking into the room. Don’t get me wrong. I’ve seen plenty of half-naked hockey players in my life, and maybe it’s because I haven’t finished my cup of coffee or something, but these guys? They’re something else entirely. From the corner of my eye, I catch Reeves dipping low and kissing Dylan’s cheek across from me as a guy scoots beside him and bends closer to kiss Ophelia. My pulse stalls as soon as I recognize him. He must feel my gaze because his attention snaps to me, and his brows wrinkle.
“Bo?” he asks.
“Uh.” I gulp again. “Hey, Mav.”
“What the hell are you doin’ here?”