5. Remy
5
Remy
S omeone definitely slipped me acid.
Not only is Win Rhodes standing in the middle of this overcrowded townhouse, but he’s looking right at me, saying my name.
My brain is still recalibrating from the sight of him. The skinny emo kid I met sophomore year in Chem lab has been replaced by a deviant fantasy. Although he's still on the thinner side, his well-worn black band tee barely hides the lean muscle of his torso. Toned forearms sport veins that shift with every flex of his long fingers around a bottle of water— fingers now decorated with tattoos that climb up the backs of his hands and wrists, slithering across the fair skin of his arms.
The changes don’t end with his excess ink.
The mop of black hair always hanging in his eyes has been tamed into an effortlessly edgy style; longer on the top and mussed like he’s been running his hands through it.
Does it still feel like silk?
Andrea shoots me a scolding glare as if hearing my thoughts.
I try to scoop my jaw off the floor but it’s difficult. The bastard is more beautiful now than I could fathom.
A surge of anger rises with my pulse.
This fucker doesn’t get to waltz back in town and flaunt his irritatingly gorgeous ass in front of me.
Fuck.
Him.
Grey eyes rimmed in coal and thick black lashes lift to meet mine.
Those haven’t changed.
It only angers me more.
“What the fuck are you doing here?”
Not the first words I imagined saying to him after six years, but here we are.
He blinks once. Twice.
“Honestly… I have no idea.”
I wasn’t expecting that. Then again, I wasn’t expecting him in my fucking breathing space smelling like a custom blend of erotic cologne and natural musk, biting his full bottom lip with those perfect white teeth, and hypnotizing me with his smoky gaze.
“It was good seeing you,” he murmurs, looking only at me before abruptly vanishing. Andrea’s mouth is moving but I’m not hearing anything she's saying. The sounds of the party as a whole have been drowned out as the echo of his voice rings in my ears.
“Rem.”
I shake my head, obnoxious music, yelling and laughter at full volume again.
Andrea is peering up at me with dangerous levels of concern. But my mask keeps slipping from my grasp. The gin is catching up to me— it’s hitching a ride with adrenaline on the express lane to my reeling brain.
“We’re leaving,” she declares and tugs me to the exit.
I’m floating. My feet aren’t on the ground. What are legs? Don’t have those. I’ve become nothing more than a scrambled consciousness wading through incongruent reality and flickering memories.
From far away, I hear Andrea's wavering voice again. “You’re scaring me.”
The ocean breeze toys with my hair; blissful relief of air not contaminated by Win’s scent.
Win.
Win, Win, Win.
My broken mind latches onto his name like a life raft. Then chucks it away like a scalding pan. I tear my wrist from Andrea’s hold and grip my hair by the roots.
I haven't realized until now that I’m hyperventilating and pacing in the sand. When did we get to the beach?
Her lower lip trembles. “Say something.”
Grains of sand caught in the wind sting my face and burn my eyes. No, those are tears spilling free. Soaking my cheeks. My lips.
“I was wrong,” I say to the crashing waves.
“What are you—”
“I hate him,” I choke. And I mean it. “I hate him so fucking much.”
My best friend's arms circle me from behind and…
I break.