4. Felix
FELIX
T he hot water pounds against my shoulders and steam fills the bathroom like a cloud trying to swallow me whole. I press my palms flat against the slick tile, leaning into the warmth, but it does nothing to relax me. My mind is racing, caught on a loop I can’t seem to break.
Julian.
I curse under my breath, tilting my head back under the spray. The water scalds my skin, but it’s not enough to wash him away—his cocky grin and the way his dark eyes spark with mischief, like he knows exactly how much space he’s taking up in my head.
Why the hell am I even thinking about him?
I close my eyes, but that’s a mistake. The memory of him at the gym flashes behind my lids, vivid and unrelenting. His teasing words echo in my ears, the way he leaned so effortlessly against the wall, completely at ease. His confidence, his playful jabs—it’s infuriating how he can get under my skin without even trying.
And then there’s the way he touched me.
I swallow hard, my breath hitching as I remember his hands on my shoulders, steady and firm. His voice, low and teasing but somehow gentle, guiding me through my stance like I wasn’t ready to snap at him for every word. And then that moment—the sparring, the laughter, the accidental press of his body against mine.
My hands curl into fists against the tile.
I shouldn’t be thinking about this. About him . But my mind won’t let it go. I shake my head, trying to force the thoughts away, but they only come back stronger. My chest tightens, my pulse racing in a way that has nothing to do with the heat of the shower.
He’s everything I should stay away from—arrogant, overconfident, infuriatingly magnetic. He thrives on chaos, and I’ve spent my entire life trying to create order. We’re opposites, incompatible.
So why the hell can’t I stop thinking about him?
I lean my head against the shower wall, my muscles aching under the hot water. God, Julian’s scent won’t get out of my head—something deep and warm, like whiskey and cherries. The memory of Julian pressed against the wall and looking up at me has me in a frenzy.
Blood rushes to my dick.
No, I can’t do this.
The gleam of sweat on his large arms.
I can’t bring myself down to that level.
What would his hands feel like on me?
My hand takes my cock and begins to pump.
Is he thinking about me now? Is he thinking about licking me, devouring me, fucking me? No, no. I’m just pent-up. I can’t fucking stand him. He thinks he knows me. He thinks he’s better than me. This is some fucked-up game for him.
I squeeze my stiff length as if scolding myself. But Julian’s not here to see me. My roommate is out. So no one would know.
My mind drifts. I think about Julian unzipping his pants, his angry cock pushing against his briefs.
“Fuck.” I use the precum leaking from the head to make my hand slicker.
I dream about shoving my dick down Julian’s throat, choking him until he’s dizzy from the taste of me. He needs to be shown he can’t push me around. I wonder what his moans would sound like. I need his hands on me now, not my own. Fuck, I need to stop thinking about the sweet melody of his voice teasing me.
I groan as my release sprays across the shower wall. The mess glares at me, taunting me like Julian’s knowing smile.
I clean off the wall and turn off the shower.
Steam clings to the mirror in my tiny bathroom, swirling and dissipating as I wipe a hand across the glass. My reflection stares back at me, disheveled and tired, with droplets sliding down my neck and onto the towel around my shoulders. Showers are supposed to be cleansing, right? But no matter how long I stand under the scalding water, I can’t seem to wash away the weight pressing on my chest.
Padding barefoot into the living room, I grab a T-shirt from the back of the couch and pull it on. It’s soft and worn, the fabric stretched from years of wear. Sweatpants follow, and I collapse into my desk chair, its wheels creaking under my weight. The apartment is quiet, save for the low hum of the refrigerator and the occasional groan of the pipes. The stillness should be comforting, but it feels heavy instead. Ben’s away; his room is eerily quiet. He’s probably out at some study group or with that girl he’s been seeing lately. He’s the only person I truly trust, though that trust came hard-earned. Ben has this uncomplicated way of seeing the world, his optimism a rare thing in a place like Valmont.
Sometimes I envy him.
I tell myself I’ll focus on finishing my criminal justice paper. I owe it to myself to stay ahead. Falling behind isn’t an option when there’s so much riding on me keeping this scholarship. My mom depends on it. I owe her more than I can ever repay—years of sacrifice, working double shifts at a diner just to keep food on the table. She deserves better than what life’s handed her.
My laptop sits open, surrounded by a mess of highlighters, notebooks, and coffee-stained textbooks. Criminal justice coursework isn’t exactly light, but I’ve always found it more fascinating than daunting. Tonight, though, the sight of it feels oppressive.
The computer screen illuminates the dark room, casting shadows across the cluttered surface of the desk. A few clicks, and I’m staring at the files I downloaded earlier. It’s supposed to be for a project on organized crime—a deep dive into theoretical laundering schemes—but it’s quickly turned into something else.
As I scroll through the documents, my gaze catches on a familiar name: Vanguard Construction, a small, seemingly unremarkable construction company flagged for suspicious transactions five years ago. I pull up their financials and skim the details. At first glance, it’s standard: profits, expenses, payroll. But as I dig deeper, I spot discrepancies.
There are gaps in the records and transactions that don’t add up. Money moves in and out of accounts without clear justification, and the numbers—when pieced together—tell a story of something sinister.
I lean closer, my fingers flying across the keyboard as I cross-reference the data with public records. My stomach tightens as the picture becomes clearer. Vanguard Construction isn’t just a company; it’s a front, a way to clean dirty money. And one of its major investors? A trust owned by a Greco family subsidiary.
The air feels heavier, and my chest is tight with unease.
The Greco family.
I’ve read about them in news articles and old case files, but they’ve always felt like a distant entity, a shadowy force operating in the background, their influence too deep-rooted to dismantle. But this?
This connection to Valmont?
It’s too close.
My thoughts drift to Julian, unbidden—his easy smile, his quick wit, the way he can command a room without trying. His last name.
No.
I shake my head, trying to dispel the thought. There’s no evidence tying Julian directly to any of this. Just a coincidence. A nagging suspicion.
But suspicions have weight, and this one presses against my chest like a stone.
I open another file, this one detailing a list of shell companies associated with the Grecos. One name stands out: Stonebridge Development. The name is familiar, too familiar, and it doesn’t take long to figure out why. Stonebridge is listed as a sponsor for Valmont College’s athletic program.
My stomach twists.
I can feel the pieces clicking into place, each connection tightening the net around a truth I don’t want to acknowledge.
Julian Greco isn’t just the star quarterback. He’s part of something bigger, something darker.
The realization should steel my resolve, but instead, it leaves me unsteady. My hands tremble slightly as I reach for my notebook and flip to a clean page. I start jotting down the connections: Vanguard Construction, Stonebridge Development, the Grecos. Lines and arrows fill the page, weaving a web that’s becoming impossible to ignore.
And at the center of it all is Julian.
Julian Greco, with his cocky grin and disarming charm. Julian, who moves through life as if nothing can touch him, with the kind of confidence only someone from obscene privilege can have.
And yet, there’s more to him. I can feel it every time we lock eyes during tutoring sessions. He’s not just the shallow, carefree jock everyone thinks he is. There’s something underneath that facade, something darker. Something dangerous .
I’ve seen that darkness before.
Growing up, my neighborhood wasn’t exactly pristine. Organized crime wasn’t just a headline in my world—it was a fact of life. My father, bless his soul, tried to shield me from it, but there were cracks in the armor. Deals made under the table. Men in expensive suits who didn’t quite belong on our streets. The whispered threats that followed whenever someone crossed the wrong people.
The threats that made themselves known in my home.
But the scars of those years haven’t faded. They’re why I don’t trust easily, why I keep most people at arm’s length. Even now, surrounded by classmates who laugh and joke like life’s one big game, I feel like an outsider.
The only person I let in is Ben.
We met freshman year when he offered to share his overpriced textbook for Intro to Sociology. There was no ulterior motive, no angle—just a kind gesture from a guy who genuinely wanted to help. Over time, he became my anchor, the one person I could count on. But even Ben doesn’t know everything.
He doesn’t know about the sleepless nights spent worrying about my mom, or the guilt that eats away at me for leaving her to fend for herself. She tells me not to worry, that she’s proud of me for chasing my dreams, but I can hear the exhaustion in her voice every time we talk.
I stare at the screen, my thoughts tangled in a web of fear, anger, and something I can’t quite name.
Julian’s name comes up again in my search, tied to a suspiciously generous donation made to the athletic department last year. It’s small potatoes compared to the larger sums I’ve uncovered, but it’s enough to make my jaw tighten.
I should hate him.
I should see him as nothing more than a spoiled rich kid riding the coattails of his family’s money. But instead, I find myself thinking about the way his smile quirks just before he delivers a perfectly timed quip, the way his eyes light up when he talks about football. I crush down the more lewd thoughts before they can take over.
I glance at my phone, sitting face down on the desk. The temptation to text him, to confront him, burns in the back of my mind. But what would I even say?
Hey, just wondering if your family is laundering money through the college????
The absurdity of it makes me laugh, but it’s a hollow sound that dies quickly in the silence of the room.
A sharp chill runs through me despite the heat still radiating from my skin. I should close the file and forget I ever saw it. But I can’t.
Instead, I open a fresh browser tab and type in Julian’s name. An ad for Valmont pops up. Julian’s godlike face smiles at me from my screen. My heart stutters.
I shouldn’t be feeling this way.
It’s wrong, on so many levels.
He’s everything I’ve spent my life trying to avoid—privilege, recklessness, and the shadow of crime. And yet, he’s the only person who’s made me feel alive in years.
I close my eyes, gripping the phone tightly.