24. Marcus
MARCUS
Iwave goodbye at the rest of the team in the arena’s parking lot.
We have an important game tomorrow, and even though we had extensive training this morning, I wanted to do some light training this evening.
I need them in top shape for the game, and I won’t be tolerating any mistakes. We’ve managed to get to the top, tying with the Vipers, and I won’t allow them to take our championship.
The rain soaks through my jacket in seconds as I hop on my bike, my duffle bag strapped across my chest.
I’ll have to text the team and ensure they’re resting for the night and not going anywhere near a bar. They usually wouldn’t, and Richardson, who shares a dorm room with two of our other starters, said he’ll make sure they’re staying out of trouble.
But I don’t like delegating my responsibilities to others, so they’ll all be hearing from me later.
Some would call it control-freak tendencies, and it probably is. I’ve just never been satisfied with mediocracy, half-assed attempts, and unfinished business.
Instead of heading straight home, I go for a ride.
There’s something about being drenched by the rain as the bike flashes through the night like a bullet.
I know some of my bike club companions don’t like riding in the rain, but it’s one of my favorite times. The droplets of water on my helmet, the screech of the tires in the puddles.
The emptiness.
It’s probably the emptiness I like the most. That means fewer people on the road and more time for me to think and breathe in the sweet, damp smell of the earth.
Which is why my “riding” friends don’t like it. Many of them just like showing off, and others are nervous about slipping and getting in a freak accident.
Though calling them friends is a stretch. I’ve never had friends. Acquaintances, yes. Friends, no. I get along with everyone, mostly because it will serve me one day. But the moment anyone crosses me or even slightly irritates me, I drop them in the blink of an eye.
I have zero percent tolerance for anything that doesn’t please me, and everyone around me is aware of that. Everyone knows not to get on my bad side.
Everyone except for Preston.
He keeps stretching my patience thin, saying or doing something that grates on my last fucking nerve.
Not only does he refuse to fall in line like everyone else, but he also keeps testing exactly how far he can push before my restraint fractures.
He threatens me. Rejects me. Snaps back without hesitation. And all of that happened within a single encounter—the one at the public skating rink four days ago.
The one I knew he’d go to because I might have followed him through town while he shopped with his younger sister.
It was a version of Preston I hadn’t seen before. Warm, attentive, and smiling without calculation.
He hovered over Miley like a shield, constantly scanning their surroundings as if expecting someone to take her away.
I hadn’t planned to reveal myself that day, but he looked like temptation left unattended. A candy waiting to be unwrapped. And when I noticed a few girls watching him with open interest, instinct took over.
I staked my claim.
It didn’t go as intended since he was far more focused on forcing me to leave.
And I did once I heard Kane was coming. Preston looked like he was on the verge of transforming into the other Preston. The one who withdraws completely, turning into a ghost of himself.
And I didn’t want to trigger that by being there when Kane showed up.
That shouldn’t have been my issue. I’m not normally accused of being altruistic or putting anyone before myself, so Preston’s state shouldn’t have mattered.
My plan was to drag him into a corner and remind him exactly who he belongs to. Whether or not Kane was coming shouldn’t have changed my course of action, but it did.
I’m self-conscious enough to recognize that the balance of power is tipping in Preston’s favor.
He’s impatient, vulgar, and uses humor like a weapon. Not to mention that he keeps testing me and pushing me because I allow him to.
Unlike with everyone else, I don’t have zero percent tolerance for Preston. The actual percentage is frighteningly higher.
But the truth is, I am reaching a limit.
I can’t just let him get away with his bullshit. I’m not that nice. Never was and never will be.
After the rink, I ignored him. Not because he didn’t text first—he did—but he was deflecting as usual, resorting to that deplorable impatience of his.
Preston
Miley won’t stop yapping about you. It’s causing me troublesome auditory poisoning that I’m holding you accountable for.
Hello?
The asshole store called to order more of you.
If you keep ignoring me, I’ll introduce you to my friend—blunt force trauma.
Fine. Let’s pretend you’re not reading these texts as soon as I send them. We both know you can’t stay away from me, Marcus. Let’s see how long you can last before you’re on your knees where you belong.
The prick knows exactly how addicted I am to him. That’s why he keeps pulling these types of stunts left and right. He’s fully aware I won’t drop him.
I can still punish him, though.
He’s been irritable lately. I know because I might have followed him around yesterday after school. What? I never said I’d punish myself—and not seeing his face for too long is certainly a punishment.
Let’s just say Preston is taking the punishment exactly how I’d expect Preston to take a punishment—dramatically.
He was throwing a fit and whining and fighting with Jude just because he got his coffee order wrong.
“Juuude!” he called as they were heading to his car. “Did I say latte? Pretty damn sure I said triple-shot Americano. Black. Like your fucking soul.”
“You don’t need three shots,” Jude dismissed him, scrolling on his phone. “One is enough.”
“Oh, here we go. Doctor Jude picked up his brother’s annoying habits and is now prescribing caffeine limits. It’s ONE shot. One! What am I supposed to do with this—this…bean-flavored water?”
“Drink it.”
He took a sip and gagged theatrically. “Just so you know, this is a crime against humanity.”
“You’re being dramatic.”
“Dramatic? Me? You’re the one who messed up. I give you one task. One. Bring coffee. Not solve world hunger. Not develop a soul overnight. Just coffee.”
Jude released an exasperated sigh as if he was used to this, and I, for some reason, did not like it. “I get your order right every other day. It’s not my problem you changed it today. If you keep bitching, I’ll kick you.”
“Try me, big man. I’ll bury you ten feet under.”
“It’s six feet, idiot.”
“Ten for you. So no one ever finds your sad, little corpse.”
I suppressed a smile, because, truly, he can be the most adorable grump, which is odd, because he’s also usually cheerful. At least, that’s the propaganda image he wears on campus and in the league.
Preston the prince. Preston, who has the personality of a saint, when, in fact, he’s the most high-maintenance person I’ve ever met.
I’m at a loss for what I can do to make him fall in line. Because he’s right. There’s only so much time I can go without him before it feels like I’m punishing myself instead of him.
I speed back home as the rain pours down harder, filling Stantonville’s roads with puddles.
The lights in the neighborhood are almost all broken, and only my headlight offers a reprieve from the night.
A tall, dark figure cuts in front of me as I’m about to stop. I hit the brakes hard as my eyes adjust.
Who the fuck—?
Wait.
Rain hits the pavement in thin silver threads, catching the beam of my headlight as it illuminates the shadow of a body I know so well. A body I’ve learned by heart. A body I’ve been commemorating to memory despite myself.
Preston.
My lips tremble, and for a second, it looks like the whole night is falling sideways. I kill the engine, the sudden silence sharp enough to breathe beneath my skin as I stare at the mythical being standing dead center in the glow, soaked to the bone.
Preston looks ethereal.
So beautiful and afar and…wrongly fragile in a way that snaps something inside me.
A feeling so foreign, it makes me tighten my grip on the handlebars.
His cashmere coat hangs off his shoulders, the fabric plastered to his defined muscles, dripping steadily.
His shirt beneath is soaked through, clinging to his chest, almost transparent.
The faint fracture tattoo on his sternum glints each time the rain hits it.
His hair is darkened and stuck to his forehead in wet strands, water dripping down his face in rivulets.
But his eyes—those fairy-like green eyes—are bright in the light, too bright. Intense in a way I can’t read.
Too still.
Too quiet.
I pull off my helmet, water running down the leather of my jacket, and he doesn’t move or blink. Just stands there in the beam as if he’s almost not here.
As if I’m staring at a man made of smoke. I’m apprehensive that if I touch him suddenly, he’ll disappear.
“What are you doing here?” I ask, my steady voice loud in the silence.
Nothing.
Not a word.
For a second, I think it’s the ghost Preston. The one who slips to somewhere I can’t reach.
“Isn’t this where you wanted me?” he whispers, his voice small and raw.
I inhale once, slowly. “I never wanted you in the damn rain.”
“Well. That’s where you got me.”
The wind cuts through, and he shivers so hard, I can hear his teeth click. My throat tightens as something hot spikes in my chest.
“How long have you been standing out here, Preston?”
“I don’t know.”
“You don’t know?”
He lifts one shoulder in a shrug that looks more like surrender. “I went to the arena first, but your team was there, so I figured waiting here was better.”
“You’ve been here for fucking hours?” The words tear out of me sharper than I intended. Because why the fuck would he freeze himself out here like a reckless fucking idiot? He has a game tomorrow, for fuck’s sake.
He glares at me. The freaking minx actually glares. “You’re the one who wouldn’t text me back. It’s your fault.”
“My fault?”
“Yeah, so you need to make it up to me.”
“What?”
He steps closer, rain dripping off his chin. “Shut up for a second.”
His voice shakes, but his hand doesn’t as he grabs the lapel of my jacket, his cold fingers fisting the leather, resting against my collarbone.
Before I can figure out what the hell he’s doing, Preston drags me toward him and kisses me.
Hard.
Desperate.
Like he came here to drown and decided to pull me down with him.
His kiss is intense, shocking, with nothing soft lurking beneath. He tastes like rain, bitterness, and something warm and primitive. Something so raw, I can’t put a name to it.
His lips are cold, almost numb, but he pushes into my space with a sort of wretchedness that steals my breath. As if he’s dying and needs to take his last drag of air through me.
There’s something uninhibited about the way Preston kisses. It’s kind of innocent, unpracticed but full of visceral energy, like he’s never kissed before.
Or maybe he’s never kissed this way before.
I grunt at the thought, and a shiver sparks down my spine.
I fist a hand in his wet hair and yank his head back to thrust my tongue down his throat. A quiet moan breaks out of him and shoots straight to my wound-up chest.
Fuck.
Fucking hell.
Fuuuck.
I think I could kiss him like this for eternity.
Preston grips my jacket harder, trying to pull me closer despite shaking so violently, he can barely stand. The rain slicks between our mouths, his breath hot against the cold night air, steam rising from our skin where we touch.
“Marcus—” he says, his voice cracking.
I cut him off with another kiss as he groans in my mouth. It’s deeper this time, swallowing whatever he was about to say.
It’s better if he stays quiet. He only pisses me off when he speaks, and I don’t want to deal with that tonight.
My other hand slides to the back of his neck, cold skin flashing hot under my palm. I can feel his frantic, uneven pulse there, as if his body can’t contain whatever is happening between us.
“Fuck,” I breathe against his lips, my forehead touching his. “You can’t just keep kissing your way back to me.”
“I can try,” he whispers, barely audible, as he brushes his cold lips against mine, caging me exactly where he wants me.
“I thought you didn’t like kissing me.”
His droopy eyes flit to my lips. “Maybe I lied.”
“Fucking hell,” I growl deep in my throat. “I’m supposed to be mad at you.”
“You are,” he mutters, his fingers digging into my throat. “That’s why it feels…good. You make it feel good.”
Something inside me breaks.
I call it the Preston complication, but truly, maybe I’m the complicated one.
Because as I stare in his soft eyes, I know that I’d let this prick have whatever the fuck he wants.
My sanity included.
“Do you know what you’re saying, Preston?” The words scrape out low in my throat, tight and uncontrolled.
He brushes his lips against mine again, a single breath, a warmth that floods the cold, wet rain. “Hm.”
“Oh, baby. You’re truly fucked.”
Preston slams me against him as he whispers, “Maybe you are.”
Perhaps that’s true.
Perhaps I’m driving down a dark road with no headlights on.
But if I get to crash into him, it’s worth it.
After tonight, Preston will be fully, categorically, and undeniably fucking mine.