Chapter 8
SCARLETT
“Why the hell does he have that much money laying around?” Sawyer asks, whipping her attention toward me.
I make a face. “Well, it wasn’t exactly laying around.”
Her hand falls to my arm, and we stop walking. “What do you mean?”
A cool breeze slips in between us, reminding me that, although the temperature is higher than average, it’s still only January. Winter isn’t over, and with the cold glares from Cross, it feels even cooler.
I sigh and give in to the part of the story I left out. “I may or may not have been snooping around in his room.”
Sawyer’s mouth opens with shock, but it quickly changes into a sly grin. “I need all the details.”
We continue walking past the sports fields, on our way to the best coffee cart on campus. We’ve been on a mission to find the best barista on campus, and so far, the guy who appears higher than a kite each time we visit makes the best hazelnut latte.
“I was so pissed off about the flyers and alarm thing that I decided to try to get back at him.”
“By going through his room?” she asks. “What were you trying to find?”
“Anything useful.” I snort. “But all I found was a wad of cash and then an angry-looking Cross with a lot of bruises.”
Sawyer exhales, her pink cheeks slowly deflating. “You’re braver than I am. I’ve seen him on campus, and he looks…”
Hot?
I bite the inside of my cheek and rid the image of him inside the tub full of icy water. I didn't see too much, but I saw enough to know there isn’t a part on his body that isn’t muscular.
“Scary?” I suggest instead.
She laughs. “I was going to say intense. How did he get so banged up? Was he fighting?”
I shrug. “I think my dad told me that he plays lacrosse, but I’m not sure he could get those types of injuries from that.”
“Speaking of lacrosse…”
I follow her line of sight and walk toward the chain-link fence overlooking the lacrosse field.
Cross catches my attention right away from the tattoos on his arm.
I couldn’t get a good look at them last night while he was submerged beneath ice, but there are very few players who have tattoos—at least visible to the public eye.
“What’s intense is how the hell he is even walking today,” I mutter, “let alone practicing."
Just as the word leaves my mouth, Cross collides mid-air with one of his teammates and falls to the ground. His helmet tumbles off his head, rolling to a complete stop near the goal.
Cross doesn’t move, and everyone freezes.
Except me.
I quickly hop the fence, leaving Sawyer behind as she calls out my name.
I rush onto the field, my heart beating furiously in my chest. I think about all the injuries he had last night, how he winced when he opened his eyes to find me standing over him in the tub, likely from a concussion of some sort.
I push through the sea of guys holding their lacrosse sticks and find him slowly sitting up.
“Cross! Are you okay?” I ask, standing no more than a few feet away from him.
His teammates turn and look at me, most of them with creased brows and confusion.
Cross blinks a few times, giving his head a slight shake. A lock of sweaty hair falls onto his forehead, and for some insane reason, I want to bend down and push it out of the way to confirm he’s okay, but I have no idea why.
“He’s fine,” someone says from behind.
I turn and make eye contact with his friend from last night.
The same one who watched Cross practically throw me out of his room like I was a piece of trash.
He’s giving me a look that I can’t decipher.
I blink through my concern and finally say, “What do you mean? Last night, he could barely walk–”
Cross groans, pulling my attention back to him. The moment our eyes clash, he bares his teeth. “Will you shut the fuck up?”
I snap my mouth shut, just like he demanded, but it isn’t to appease him. It’s purely out of shock. I take a step backward when he climbs to his feet. His teammates slowly disperse, except for his friend from last night.
“I don’t know what’s going on, but…”
Cross towers over me like a nightmare, his jaw clenched.
“Go away,” he grits out.
My shock only lasts a few seconds. I raise my chin, level my shoulders, and peer up at him. “You know, I was going to apologize for snooping in your room last night…because of this.” I take my finger and jab him in the ribs, knowing very well there’s a massive bruise there.
He makes a noise and hunches.
“Clearly you have some serious shit going on in your life, but never fucking mind.” I turn and stomp off the field with a fire of anger trailing me.
Sawyer, with her mouth hanging wide open, sees me coming and quickly loops our arms together. “I don’t know what the hell just happened, but holy shit.”
My heart is beating wildly, my thoughts all over the place.
“Do you have plans tonight?” I blurt. “Because the last thing I want to do is go home, knowing he’ll be there.”
“I do,” she says. “But you’re invited.”
It’s just like old times.
Sawyer and I walk through the door of some house, the smell of warm beer filling the air and reminding me of simpler times at Yale.
“Jeez,” Sawyer mutters. “We’re overdressed.”
I stuff a laugh down, because she’s right.
Most of the girls are wearing practically nothing, but I’m not surprised in the least. I, too, was one of these girls not too long ago, but now, I stand in the middle of a party filled with hockey players, wearing jeans and a sweater.
The only part of my body that’s showing is my shoulder, and that’s simply because my sweater is oversized.
“At least we leave something to the imagination…” I say, trying to make Sawyer feel better about the girls walking around in crop tops and miniskirts, as if it isn’t forty degrees out without the sun shining.
“Come on.” She loops her arm in mine and tugs me toward the kitchen. A keg, red Solo cups, and random bottles of vodka are scattered along the counter. A guy with a black eye is tending to a group of girls, filling their cups to the brim with beer.
Once they’re full and done flirting with the guy, they turn to head back the way we came. They’re distracted and unaware of the fact that we’re standing behind them, and sure enough, the loudest–and tipsiest–of the bunch trips.
Her red Solo cup, full of cheap beer, flies from her hand. I grab onto her arms to steady her, the beer landing on my shirt, and manage to keep us both upright.
“Oh my goddddd,” she slurs. “I am so sorrrrrry.”
“Holy shit.” Sawyer bends to pick up the cup. “Are you okay, Scarlett?”
“I’m fine.” I look at the girl’s two friends, and my face screws up with annoyance. “You really should get her home. She’s too wasted to be at a party like this.”
The blonde one snickers.
The other rolls her eyes.
“Who are you? The fun police?” The blonde laughs at her joke while the other takes her drunk friend by the waist to guide her out of the kitchen.
I glance at my wet sweater, sticky with beer.
Sawyer comes over with a handful of paper towels and tries to dab my face. Her expression says it all–I’m a lost cause.
“You’re soaked,” the guy manning the keg points out.
“Do you have somewhere she can clean up…or at least rinse her sweater?” Sawyer asks.
He nudges his chin toward the kitchen sink. “She can rinse in there.”
I give him a deadpan look.
Sawyer scoffs. “Then she’d have to take her shirt off in front of everyone.”
He grins. “Exactly.”
I touch Sawyer’s arm. “I’m just going to find the bathroom and clean up. Do you want to come? Or will you be okay out here?”
“Um…” She glances around, likely looking for the guy who invited her. “I’ll be fine. Unless you want me to come?”
“Go look for Archer. I’ll find you when I’m…”—I pull on my sweater—“less sticky.”
We part ways, and I search for a line.
There’s always a line for the bathroom at these types of parties.
Rising onto my tiptoes, I try to look over the heads of college students.
“Jesus, what happened to you?” someone asks.
I, unfortunately, recognize him right away. I drop down to my heels and cross my arms. “We really have to stop meeting like this.”
Cross’s friend somehow keeps finding me in the most embarrassing situations.
He chuckles. “I agree. What happened to you? Why do you smell like you took a swim in the keg?”
I roll my eyes. “Some girl fell and spilled her beer all over me. I’m looking for the bathroom.”
And now the exit, because if Cross’s friend is here, then that likely means Cross is here.
No thanks.
“It’s over there.”
I follow his line of sight.
“Great.” I sigh.
The line wraps around the stairwell. My sweater will be dry by then, and I’ll still smell like a bar.
“Come on.” He heads for the closed bathroom door, bypassing the line like he’s some celebrity.
“Are you trying to help me? Or are you taking me to Cross so he can make fun of me?” I follow him.
He looks over his shoulder and grins. “I’m helping you. But don’t tell Cross.”
I refuse to talk to Cross, so he has nothing to worry about.
Just as we make it to the bathroom, I think there’s a light at the end of the tunnel.
But instead, the door opens…and it’s something worse.
Stepbrother dearest.
“Really?” I say, gaping at his friend.
He puts his hands up, feigning innocence. “I swear I didn’t know he was in there.”
Cross is clearly surprised. His brows are furrowed as he looks between me and his friend.
I quickly push past him, making sure to nudge him with my elbow on the way, and go to slam the door. Anything to get away from them.
Except, it doesn’t shut, and suddenly, I’m not alone.