Chapter 28
Chapter
Twenty-Eight
ARCHIE
T he door clicked shut behind Frankie, Rachel, and Mathieu. The silence they left behind was heavier than anything else said in this room.
Jake stood there like he wasn’t sure how he got there, his fists still clenched, chest rising and falling like he’d just sprinted ten blocks and still couldn’t outrun himself.
Coop leaned against the door, arms crossed and a stony look taking over his usually easy-going demeanor.
Bubba hadn’t moved from the place he’d taken near the cold fireplace upon coming into the room.
He seemed shellshocked by the bomb that had just detonated in the middle of our lives.
I couldn’t say he was wrong. The fact we were all still standing was surprising enough. Downing the last of the whiskey in the glass, I tried not to think about how I wished Frankie had taken a drink. It burned its way to my stomach. God, I needed the burn.
Crossing to the bar, I refilled my drink. “You shouldn’t have done it.”
Jake let out a bitter laugh. “So now it’s my fault?”
I turned then, leaned back against the bar and looked at him.
Really looked. Jake hadn’t always been the easiest of guys to get to know.
From the first moment I met him, he’d been territorial where Frankie was concerned.
It wasn’t hard to see why. Except—she wasn’t dating him. She wasn’t dating any of us.
But Jake was a power player on the football team, could keep up with me in engineering and was right up there in most of the honors classes with Frankie. He was smart as hell. Or usually, he was. Right now?
The charming hardass was gone and there was something a lot darker and cracked in his eyes than had been there before. “You aren’t mad she didn’t tell us,” I said, particularly because she had to have told him . How else would he know? “You’re mad she didn’t pick you.”
That, I got. Was I mad that some guy we’d never even heard of had his hands on her? Had kissed her, much less had sex with her? Yeah. I was pissed. Because I wanted to be that guy.
So yeah, I got it.
His jaw tensed. “That’s not?—”
“It is,” Coop cut in sharply. “It is exactly that.”
Jake looked at him like he’d been slapped. “You’re supposed to have my back.”
“I do ,” Coop said. “Which is why I’m telling you the truth. You screwed this up. Badly. I think we all get it. I hate that this guy has that in with her, but what you did? Right now, I wouldn’t be surprised if she cut us off again.”
Me neither. Still wasn’t going to let that happen.
Bubba finally spoke, voice quiet. “You didn’t just humiliate her, Jake. You made her unsafe . You made Mathieu unsafe. You know how far that kind of rumor travels.”
Jake looked down. “I didn’t mean for it to be like that.”
“Intent doesn’t erase impact,” I said. “You know better.”
He did. We all did.
High school came with its own etiquette and unspoken rules.
I’d grown up with kids who made a regular habit of destroying the reputations of others around them just to prove a point.
Leaving behind private school and privilege hadn’t meant that I was abandoning everything I knew.
Kids in public schools did the same shit. They just did it with less finesse.
Image was everything. Control was currency. And Frankie… she was the one thing none of us could control. None of us should control her either. As much as I hated her sleeping with Frenchy, she had a right to do whatever she wanted.
I walked over to him slowly. Not threatening. Just close enough that he had to hear me, had to really listen .
“She still loves us, you know,” I said. “Not the same way, clearly. Not like that . If she did, maybe she would have noticed us long before now. I’m not proud of it, Jake.
I hate that she picked someone else. But she loved us enough to stay quiet about our secrets.
Even when we messed up—hell, especially when we screwed it up.
She stayed quiet. She shielded us. What did you do?
Torched her reputation in front of half the damn school. ”
Jake’s throat bobbed.
“But here’s the part you’re not really going to like,” I continued. “She’s still going to walk out there, head high, with people whispering, and she’s going to win. Because she’s Frankie. And you?”
I let the words settle.
“You’re the guy who couldn’t handle losing her without making sure all of us, including her, lost something too.”
Jake closed his eyes. Tight. Like maybe if he kept them shut long enough, this would all go away.
It wouldn’t.
I turned away from him and grabbed the door handle.
“You want to fix this?” I asked. “Start by apologizing. Not just for what you said. For the why behind it. For the part of you that thought you owned a piece of her.”
I opened the door.
“And Jake?”
He looked up.
“If you ever pull a stunt like that again…” I smiled, but there was no warmth in it. “You won’t be welcome in this house. And when I’m finished, I won’t be the only one who sees you differently.”
Then I left him there.
Because there were still people out by the pool waiting for a show. Still eyes that would follow Frankie, still mouths ready to spin stories that weren’t theirs to tell.
But I wasn’t going to let her face them alone.
Not anymore.
I found her on the patio, standing near the pool like a queen surveying her court, Rachel at one side, Mathieu at the other. People still whispered. But no one dared approach.
She looked over her shoulder when I stepped outside.
I didn’t say anything.
She didn’t need me to.
She just gave me a tiny nod. The kind that meant thanks, and don’t push your luck, and maybe, just maybe, we were still on the same team.
Frankie didn’t look at me again after that nod.
She didn’t have to. At the same time, I couldn’t miss the way her spine was still locked straight, too straight.
Like she’d coiled herself so tight she might shatter if anyone pushed the wrong way.
The whispers had softened, sure, but they hadn’t stopped.
And everyone was still watching like she was a live grenade with a mascara wand.
No.
Not tonight.
Not my house.
I glanced at Rachel. She raised one perfect eyebrow, like she knew I was about to do something reckless and was already half-proud.
Good.
I cut a glance to Coop, who had trailed me out and was now standing awkwardly near the bar, clutching a cold Coke like he wanted it to be a teleportation device.
Right. He might not be much help at the moment. Fine. I’d do it myself.
I jogged up onto the pool deck, grabbed the mic from the DJ booth we hadn’t used since the first hour of the party, and gave it a tap. The sharp feedback squeal made heads whip around, conversations pause, and several people visibly wince.
Perfect.
“Ladies and gentlemen,” I said into the mic, voice smooth, rich, loud , “and all gorgeous troublemakers in between.”
A smattering of laughs. Confusion. Curiosity. Frankie turned slowly, arms crossed, head tilted in that way she did when she was bracing for chaos. I gave her a wink.
“Since we seem to have forgotten the purpose of this evening—and have instead turned it into a half-baked high school tabloid—I figured I’d remind you all that this is, in fact, a party .”
A few cheers, weak and scattered.
I tsked into the mic. “No, no, no. That was lukewarm at best. This is my house, Frankie’s party, and you are all dangerously close to being the worst crowd this zip code has ever seen.”
Rachel whooped. Bubba let out a bark of laughter. The DJ hit the volume on the music. Good job!
The bass thumped louder. The beat kicked up. Lights that had been set to moody golds and muted pinks shifted suddenly—neon blues and sharp white pulses painting the backyard like a beachside rave.
I pointed to the pool. “I want cannonballs, I want bad decisions, I want someone to start a synchronized swimming team in the next ten minutes.”
Then, my voice dropped just enough to draw focus like a magnet. “And if any of you are still more interested in talking about Frankie than talking to her, let me remind you—she didn’t light the match.”
I let that hang. Sharp. Clear.
“She’s just fireproof.”
There was a beat of silence.
Then someone—maybe Maria, maybe that sophomore who always tried too hard—started clapping. Then more joined in. Laughter, cheers, a whistle from the shallow end. Someone launched a pool float like a missile.
The energy flipped like a switch.
And Frankie?
She smiled. Not big. Not for everyone. Just for me.
It was sharp-edged and weary and a little disbelieving, like she couldn’t decide whether to kiss me or kill me. I raised my brows. Offered a shrug. You’re welcome.
Setting the mic aside, I jogged back down and crossed over to her and held out a hand.
No mic now. Just my voice and her name.
“Dance with me.”
She blinked. “You’re kidding.”
I stepped closer. “Have I ever looked like I’m kidding?”
Rachel groaned behind her. “Constantly. It’s infuriating.”
Frankie still hadn’t moved. “You hate dancing.”
“I hate standing still more.”
Another beat.
Then, finally, she took my hand.
We didn’t really dance so much as sway lazily near the fire pit while the chaos bloomed around us—someone did, in fact, start synchronized splashing, and someone else found the fog machine. But I kept her close, one hand on her waist, the other twined through her fingers.
“Epic move,” she murmured, just loud enough for me to hear.
I leaned in, brushed a strand of hair behind her ear. “You deserve nothing less.”
She didn’t pull away.
I didn’t let go.
And as the lights spun wild across the backyard and the gossip drowned under a tidal wave of bass and tequila, I thought—maybe this was what power looked like.
Not control.
Not fear.
Choice.
I’d choose her. Every time.