Chapter 18
18
BEVERLY, 1998
16 years old
Blake sat back down, stretching his arms over the back of the couch like he hadn’t just dragged Drew off me and stared him into submission.
Like that whole thing had been some minor inconvenience, something he could brush off like dust on his sleeve.
I needed another drink. A real one. Not because I was thirsty, but because I needed something to do—something other than looking at Blake. Something other than feeling the heat crawl under my skin, his words still curled around my spine.
She’s done dancing with you.
He had no right. And yet, I didn’t stop him.
Because some horrible, secret part of me wanted him to do it.
I shoved my way through the crowd, ignoring the way Tiffany tried to call after me. My skin was hot, my pulse too loud, and my fingers itched to do something . I turned away, found the kitchen, and poured myself another cup of whatever was closest, ignoring the way my fingers trembled slightly as I brought it to my lips.
The scent of coconut and sugar filled the air, but it did nothing to calm my nerves. I took a long sip, wincing at the burn but welcoming the distraction.
Outside, loud voices erupted.
I could hear the chanting: “Do it! Do it! Do it!”
A rush of people streamed toward the backyard, everyone desperate to witness whatever reckless idiot was about to belly flop into the pool from the roof.
“Come on, Bev,” Tiffany called, grinning as she shoved her way through the crowd. “They’re about to do something stupid.”
“You go.” I waved her off, shaking my head. “I’ll catch up.”
I wouldn’t.
I wasn’t interested in drunken boys proving their masculinity through bad decisions.
I was interested in something else.
Something far worse.
Tiffany raised an eyebrow but shrugged, disappearing into the backyard, Jamal trailing behind her.
I took another sip of my drink as the house emptied out. Then I turned my head slightly, just enough to scan the room without making it obvious. That’s when I saw her.
Tall, tan, dark eyes, dark hair—pretty in that effortless way that made other girls hate her a little. The kind of girl who chewed pink bubblegum and had mastered the art of the perfect coy smile. I recognized her—Rachel something.
She sidled up to Blake like she’d been planning it all night, all soft curves and glossy lips. Blake, however, didn’t acknowledge her at all. He didn’t even glance her way, ignoring her completely as she bit her lip like she was thinking really hard about something she was about to say.
My jaw clenched at the sight.
Rachel leaned in closer, twirling a strand of hair around her finger as if it was some kind of spell she could cast.
I gripped my cup tighter, my pulse quickening with each passing second. Her voice was low, too soft for me to hear, but I didn’t need to catch the words to know what she was saying.
Hey.
You’re Blake, right ?
You come here often ?
God, you’re so tall.
Are your eyes real ?
I knew I had no right to feel anything about this.
I was the one who told Blake not to come. I was the one who danced with another guy, all while knowing he was watching.
So why did my chest feel tight? Why did my skin feel hot? Why did my fingers curl around my cup like I wanted to throw it straight at her head?
Blake gave her the tiniest shake of his head, a dismissive gesture that momentarily eased the tension in my chest.
For a moment, I let myself breathe.
That should have been the end of it.
Blake wasn’t interested.
But then, to my horror, she settled into his lap as if she belonged there. Blake’s whole body went rigid, his fingers twitching like he was considering physically removing her.
I stopped breathing, my gaze glued to the scene unfolding before me for far too long. Long enough for something hot and ugly to settle under my ribs, twisting into a knot of rage and disbelief. Long enough for my blood to boil. Long enough to notice how his hands clenched at his sides, as if he didn’t know what to do with them. Long enough to see the tick in his jaw, the slight flicker of discomfort in his green eyes.
My nails dug into my palm.
He didn’t want her there . I could see it in the way his hands didn’t move to her waist, in the way his jaw clenched as if he were enduring something instead of enjoying it.
I wasn’t thinking when I started moving.
I slammed my drink down onto the counter, ignoring the way it sloshed over the rim and onto my fingers.
Blake’s eyes flicked up, already watching, already waiting.
Rachel was still whispering sweet nothings against his ear when I reached them, her lips curved in a little smile, as if she had already won.
That was enough for me.
“Let’s dance,” I said.
Rachel was still trying to get his attention like she was the only one in the room worth noticing.
But Blake’s attention wasn’t on her—it was on me.
He relaxed and leaned back, stretching his arms out over the back of the couch, pretending he wasn’t highly aware of my presence. “You look like you’re having fun without me.”
I exhaled sharply through my nose. “Dance with me.”
He hummed, tapping his fingers against the cushion. “I don’t know, B. I’m kinda comfortable right now.”
I crossed my arms. “Blake.”
“Beverly.”
I lifted my chin. “You owe me.”
“For what, exactly?”
“For scaring off my dance partner.”
Blake’s expression didn’t change. “Didn’t seem like you wanted him as a dance partner.”
I opened my mouth. Shut it.
One brow lifted in lazy amusement. “That’s what I thought.”
“Come on,” I pushed, refusing to let him win. “Get up.”
But he didn’t move. Didn’t budge. Didn’t even pretend to consider it. Instead, he stretched out his legs further, tilting his head back against the couch like he was suddenly bored.
I swallowed as something shifted in his gaze.
Rachel chuckled, like this was some joke she was in on.
Like she thought I was just another girl in line.
Blake’s eyes dragged over me, slow and assessing, as if he was deciding how much damage he wanted to do.
Slowly, his lips curved into a lazy smirk.
“Why don’t you dance for me, B?”
The words hit me like a slap and a caress all at once, sending a bolt of something hot and dangerous through me.
Blake didn’t say things like that. Blake didn’t play like that.
At least, not with me.
But he was playing now. He wanted to see if I would fold.
He was daring me. Testing me.
I should’ve rolled my eyes and left him there with that girl still sitting in his lap. But I didn’t. I wanted to win. I wanted to undo whatever game he was playing before it even started.
He wanted a show? I’d give him a damn show.
I stormed toward the boombox sitting near the kitchen, flipping through the mixtapes stacked beside it.
A quick glance at Blake confirmed he was still sitting there like a king on his throne, watching and waiting. Rachel shifted in his lap, clearly irritated that she was being ignored.
My fingers flew over the tapes, shoving past whatever garbage Evan had collected. I didn’t even know what I was looking for—until I found it. A slow, wicked smile spread across my lips as I popped the cassette into the player, pressing it down with an almost violent force.
The opening beat of The Boy Is Mine by Brandy and Monica echoed through the room, and I turned to face Blake.
His smirk faltered.
I saw it—the briefest flicker of hesitation in his eyes before he masked it with indifference.
With a smirk of my own, I stalked toward him, my pulse pounding in time with the bass, each step fueled by a mixture of determination and defiance.
Rachel leaned in, her lips brushing against Blake’s ear as she whispered something. Whatever it was, it didn’t matter. He barely acknowledged her. His eyes didn’t leave mine.
I stopped just in front of him, so close that I could see the way his jaw tensed. Looking down at him, I tilted my head ever so slightly. I decided to start small. A slow, teasing sway of my hips. A slow, deliberate shift of weight.
I felt his gaze like a slow drag of heat against my skin.
Rachel stiffened, still lingering in a place she no longer belonged, her presence already an afterthought.
I moved closer, so close that I could see the way his chest rose and fell. Then I leaned down and whispered, “Send her away.”
Blake exhaled sharply, dragging his tongue over his bottom lip before finally turning to Jenna. Without a word, he reached up, took her by the waist, and gently lifted her off his lap.
I hated how easily he did it. Like she was weightless.
She let out a small noise of protest, eyes darting between us. “Are you serious?”
Blake didn’t look at her. “Yeah.”
Her mouth opened, then closed.
And then she was gone.
Blake leaned back again, stretching his arms over the couch and spreading his legs slightly. “Well?” he said slowly, tilting his head as he studied me. “I’m waiting.”
God, why did his voice sound like that ?
I should have said something smart and cutting, something that would wipe that smirk off his face and put me back in control. Instead, I stepped even closer. I let my hands skim over my stomach, my fingertips grazing the smooth skin just above my waistband, drawing attention to the silver butterfly charm dangling from my belly button—the same piercing Blake had glared at earlier, as if he wanted to rip it out and destroy it.
Blake’s gaze flickered down. Then back up.
His green eyes darkened.
His smirk vanished.
His jaw flexed.
I smiled.
And then I danced like I never had before. Not the way I danced at the studio, all structured and rehearsed. Not the way I danced with Tiffany, tipsy and giggling in her room. I danced like the music was mine. Like the lyrics were mine. Like every word Brandy and Monica crooned was aimed directly at him.
He looked up at me, something unreadable flickering across his expression. But I noticed the way he tried to appear unimpressed—the way his Adam’s apple bobbed, just once.
I let my lips curl into something smug. Something that said, You think you can play this game? Watch me win.
I rolled my hips to the beat. Slow. Smooth.
Blake let out a slow breath, rubbing a hand over his jaw.
I tilted my head, watching him watch me, my smirk deepening. “You enjoying the show?”
His voice came out rough. “You’re trying to piss me off.”
I ran my hands over my waist, letting them trail over my navel again. His eyes immediately followed the movement.
“Is it working?” I asked, voice all saccharine sweetness.
His lips parted, but he didn’t answer.
Good .
Let him seethe.
Let him burn .
I wanted him to.
I placed a hand on his knee, feeling the heat of his skin through his jeans. Leaning in—enough for my breath to brush against his cheek—I whispered, “Still want me to dance for you?”
He sighed, slow and controlled, his voice just barely loud enough for me to hear over the music. “I didn’t think you’d actually do it.”
“Oh?” I let my fingers graze his shoulders.
His body tensed under my hands. His arms weren’t stretched over the couch anymore; he was sitting up now, his hands gripping his knees so tightly his knuckles were white.
For a second, I thought he was going to snap—that he was going to grab my hips and pull me into his lap.
I frowned, feigning innocence. “You’re tense, Blake.”
His eyes flickered to my lips. I pretended not to notice.
With a short, humorless laugh, he shook his head and leaned back, stretching his legs out like he wasn’t itching to close the space between us. His fingers drummed against his thigh, restless. He stared at me for a long moment, then leaned forward. “You think this is a game, Beverly?”
“I don’t know.” I fought back a smile. “ Are you losing ?”
His lips parted slightly, as if he had something else to say, and I could feel the weight of whatever lingered on the tip of his tongue. I reveled in the rush of triumph swelling inside me, grinning in response. “What’s wrong? Cat got your tongue?”
His hand shot out, catching my wrist.
My breath hitched.
Blake’s voice was low. “You think you’re winning this?”
I lifted a brow, trying to maintain my composure despite the racing pulse in my ears. “Aren’t I?”
“Not yet.”
In one swift motion, Blake pulled me into his lap, and I gasped at the suddenness of it. My hands instinctively landed on his shoulders for balance, while my knees pressed against the couch on either side of his hips.
His fingers skimmed my waist, settling just above my hips, his thumbs grazing the skin below my shirt.
“Dance for me now, B.” His voice was rough, low enough that it felt like it scraped down my spine.
I swallowed hard, my heart pounding against my ribcage.
This was a game I wasn’t sure I knew how to play.
“Right here?” I questioned, trying to sound casual, but the breathiness of my tone betrayed my nervousness. The challenge in his eyes was blatant. I scoffed, willing my voice to stay steady. “You think I won’t?”
“I think you’re stalling.”
I narrowed my eyes. “I think you’re full of shit.”
Blake hummed in response, his thumbs moving in slow circles against my waist, barely-there touches that sent a wave of heat racing up my spine. “You’re talking a lot for someone who is supposed to be dancing .”
Scowling, I let my hands drift down his chest, feeling the fabric of his shirt stretch over hard muscle, before slowly rolling my hips to the beat.
Blake sucked in a breath.
I leaned in closer, my lips brushing his ear. “Just say it.”
“Say what?” His voice was strained, gritty.
“That I win.”
Before he could answer, Tiffany’s voice cut through the air.
“Holy shit, Bev.”
The spell shattered, the tension snapping like a live wire.
I whipped my head around to see her standing in the doorway, mouth open, eyes wide with absolute glee.
“I leave for five minutes, and you’re out here giving lap dance auditions?”