Chapter 36
Josephine
The party is in full force by the time we get back to the house.
Kylian grasps the handle of the sliding glass door but pauses to look back at me before opening it.
I’m learning his quirks and picking up on his tells. He is so focused and on-point during football games. Then afterward, he crashes. Hard.
Right now, his jaw is set, and his eyes are a little glassy.
He does an excellent job of keeping it together until we get home.
To most, he probably just looks tired. But I see the way he reacts slower and really has to process each word spoken to him in this state.
Almost as if he has to work to remember how to carry on a conversation before he can engage.
He’s looking me in the eye, but his expression is blank. I can’t get a read on him for the life of me. It’s nothing personal. This is just how he gets. He needs rest. Quiet. Solitude. The exact opposite of what happens every week after a home game.
“Why does Decker insist on hosting a party every damn weekend when you’re clearly exhausted after the games?” I blurt out.
His brows furrow as he considers my question. A few beats pass, then his eyes narrow like he’s trying to work something out.
Great. Now I’m the asshole for forcing a conversation that’s obviously requiring a concerted amount of effort on his part.
“Forget it,” I huff, blowing out a long breath.
Kylian catches my hand in his, tracing my knuckles with the pad of his thumb. “You worried about me, Jo?”
I am. And I’m annoyed that Decker and Kendrick need to surround themselves with superfans and cheerleaders to boost their egos after a game at the expense of their friend.
Without waiting for a response, he tugs me a little closer.
“I live in a literal mansion. I have a private room that my best friend paid to have soundproofed. He went as far as to install a floating floor in the Nest. I’m an integral part of a championship team.
I already have job offers from four different professional clubs.
Believe me when I say that I’m good. I have everything I need right here.
” He squeezes my hand in a way that makes me wonder if he considers me as one of those things. “Including my brothers,” he adds.
Yep. I’m definitely an asshole. I hadn’t considered that Decker or any of the guys went to such great lengths to accommodate Kylian. Silly, really, because it’s on-brand for the broody asshole to go out of his way to take care of his friends.
“Are you coming up tonight?” Kylian asks.
Part of me wants to. Really, really wants to. But his eyes are weary and bloodshot. And I know him well enough now to know he won’t truly let himself rest if I’m in his space.
Shaking my head, I give him a soft smile. “Not tonight. You’re exhausted. Go rest. I’ll see you at breakfast?”
He nods and leans in to kiss me quickly, murmuring “good night,” against my lips. Then he heads inside and takes off like a shot toward the stairs.
I don’t bother trying to keep up. He’s desperate to wind down, and I want him to have that tonight.
Slowly, I close the sliding glass door, then take in the scene in the living room, scanning each face, many of which I recognize. Football players. Superfans. Even Dr. Hinkley’s TA on the dance floor. Yikes.
I’m halfway to the kitchen before I admit to myself that I’m looking for Decker.
Part of me wants to see if Kendrick already got to him. Does Decker know what happened? Does he share Kendrick’s outrage over my interference?
More importantly, though, I need to make sure he’s really okay.
I stick my head out the door and peek around the upper deck where we had dinner last night. This is where I found him holding court at the last party.
A quick scan confirms Decker’s not out here. But his groupies are.
Three girls—a blonde, a redhead, and a brunette—perch on the sides of one of the cushioned love seats, waiting for their king to take his throne. I snort at the absurdity of it and turn on my heel, ready to retreat to the kitchen, but freeze at the shrill voice cutting through the humid air.
“Excuse me. Miss? Miss?”
I pop back outside and lock eyes with a cheerleader sitting snugly in Kendrick’s lap.
Ugh. I didn’t even notice him out here a moment ago.
“Oh good. Hi,” she singsongs, examining me from head to toe and squirming on the big guy’s thigh. “Can you bring me another vodka seltzer? Peach, if you’ve got it.” She holds up the empty can in her hand and shakes it.
Kendrick chuckles, the rumble in his chest deep and cruel, as he smooths a hand over her thigh.
I wait a beat, then another. Until it’s obvious he’s not going to correct his little girlfriend.
“I’m not a server,” I snap, cocking one hip and scowling.
“Oh. Huh. I thought I saw you here before…”
I open my mouth to tell her exactly why she’s seen me around the mansion before, but before I can, Kendrick jumps to his feet, cutting me off. Hmm. He must not want his superfan to know that he and I are actually roomies.
“Come on, baby girl. Let’s go see if the hot tub’s occupied.”
I jump out of the way so they can pass. I didn’t even know this place had a hot tub.
“Um, excuse me?” The redhead still stationed on the love seat has the audacity to jump in next.
“Get your own drinks,” I snark, moving a step closer and crossing my arms under my breasts. I’m over this mean-girl shit.
She picks at her nail polish and has the decency to look bashful. “No, no. That’s not what I was going to say. Ignore Angelica. I know you’re not a server. But I have seen you here before, haven’t I? With the guys?”
I stare at her, deadpan, scrambling to get ahead of whatever trap she’s setting.
“Your point?” I ask to buy myself some time.
“Um, well…”
Seriously. What’s this girl’s problem?
“I was just wondering if you’ve seen Decker.” She looks up at me with wide puppy dog eyes and bats her lashes. Her uncertainty finally makes sense. She’s wondering where her boy toy’s gotten off to, and she’s also trying to figure out if I’m a threat.
Noted.
“I haven’t,” I answer honestly, dread churning faster in my gut at the reminder. “Sorry.”
With that, I head back into the house and continue my quest to track down Decker Crusade.
“Hot Girl!” Locke comes at me from behind, wrapping me in a bear hug and lifting me off my feet. “We won!”
His scent envelops me—sugar cane and mint; sweet, fresh, and perfectly him—delivering a heady rush that inspires tingles through my whole body.
“You always win,” I laugh, swatting at his arms until he sets me down. Every eye in the kitchen is on us. I can only imagine the questions. None of which I want to address tonight.
Locke obviously doesn’t share my sentiment.
Ducking to lower his lips to my ear, he winds one big hand into the hair at the back of my head.
“Maybe we should celebrate,” he whispers with a smile against the crook of my neck. “I bet the pantry’s available.”
He nips at my earlobe, and I shiver, despite the arousal stoking warmth in my belly. I lean back against his broad chest, glancing up to follow the lines of his neck piece.
I love the way he purrs and holds me tighter when I run my nails down his forearms. And after all the highs and lows of this week, plus that run-in with Kendrick on the sidelines? I could use a little stress relief in the form of Emo Boy–delivered orgasms.
But then one of the many team cheers is chanted by the crowd throughout the house. And my thoughts ping back to Decker.
Pushing up on tiptoes so my lips graze his jaw, I murmur “raincheck?” then swivel my hips against him in a tantalizing promise. “Maybe we could hang out and watch a movie this week?”
“Hell yeah. You’re serious?” he asks, his eyes bright.
“Yeah, I want to hang out,” I answer with a smile, “but I need to take care of something right now.”
Reluctantly, I spin out of his arms, giving him a quick glance over my shoulder as I retreat from the kitchen.
At the bottom of the stairs, I pass the sentries standing guard on either side of their ridiculous velvet rope. The one on the right—Corbin, I think—offers a nod of recognition. At least I won’t have to fight my way up to my own room tonight.
I bypass the living room, where the same DJ who’s here every week has the whole place bumping and grinding. There are so many bodies smashed together on the makeshift dance floor, it’s impossible to figure out who’s dancing with whom.
I don’t think I’ve ever seen Decker dancing at one of these parties, so I give the crowd a cursory once-over.
The media room and the gym are unoccupied.
I call out in the garage, but it’s empty aside from jet skis and sports equipment.
I double check the pantry just to be sure—although wouldn’t that be the irony of all ironies if I found him in there?
Finally, I come to the only place on the main level I haven’t checked: the master suite.
I knock quietly, unsure of what I’m doing or why. Decker finished the game. The Crusaders won. And not a soul has mentioned any cause for concern.
But I know what I saw. And there’s this nagging in my gut that insists I check up on him.
There’s a special flavor of dread to being sure but having absolutely no way to prove or disprove the notion. It’s the antithesis of belief.
To believe someone or something makes it so. On the contrary, disbelief has the power to dispel people, places, or things from existence. Authority, influence, and control all exist in the realm of belief—of power. It’s the elusiveness of instinct that makes it so disconcerting.
If instinct nudges a disbelieving person toward the truth, the reaction is one of regret. If instinct misdirects, there’s a sense of betrayal.
Right or wrong. Truth or fiction. Instinct is rarely a welcome reflex.
Unless it’s a game of Clue, exclaiming “I knew it!” doesn’t do anyone any good, because confirmation doesn’t come until it’s too late.
A sense of urgency washes over me when I knock again and get no answer.
Pushing into the room, I call out his name. “Hey, Decker? Are you in here? It’s Josephine.”
I’m greeted by darkness. Darkness and silence.
Defeated, I turn on my heel and pull the door shut.
But then I hear it. A guttural, painful groan.