Chapter 28
SAM
The line outside Eclipse wraps around the block, a parade of sparkly outfits and strong perfume. Everyone looks so eager to get in. I grab Willow's arm, staring at Miami's newest nightclub like it's the most amazing thing I've ever seen.
"Are we seriously waiting in that?" I ask, calculating how many vodka sodas I could've already consumed in the time it'll take to reach the door.
But Willow just smirks, fishing the VIP passes from her tiny purse.
God bless Khol and his magical connections.
"You think I'd make you stand in line like a peasant?" she asks, flicking her honey-blonde hair over one shoulder. "Please. That's what these are for."
The bouncer waves us through with barely a look at our passes. We slip past the line of waiting people, collecting dirty looks from those who've been standing for hours in painful shoes.
Eclipse is as fancy as its prices suggest. Everything shines—from the bar to the dance floor to the white teeth flashing all around us. A hostess with perfectly straight hair leads us to our special spot—a cushy corner booth elevated above the main floor.
"Where's Khol?" she yells over the music once we're seated.
"Practice ran late," I yell back, grabbing the cocktail menu. "He said he might catch up if we're still here."
"His loss!" Willow flags down a server who appears instantly—another perk of Khol's magical passes. "Two cosmopolitans to start. And two tequila shots!"
I raise an eyebrow. "Starting strong, are we?"
"Life's too short for weak drinks."
Two cosmos and three shots later (how did three happen?), the ceiling is doing this weird tilt-a-whirl thing that's actually kind of fascinating. Willow slides another drink in front of me. I've completely lost track of how many I've had in the two hours since we arrived.
"What's this one?" I ask, poking at the blue liquid like it might bite me.
"Something with vodka. Does it matter?"
It absolutely does not. I throw it back and feel it burn a wonderful path down my throat. The DJ switches tracks, and suddenly the whole club pulses with a beat that seems to sync perfectly with my heartbeat—or maybe my heartbeat is just finally catching up to the music.
"Dance floor?" Willow asks, already standing.
"Dance floor," I confirm, though it comes out more like "dansh flurr."
Bodies press against each other on the dance floor, yet we still find room to move. The bass pounds through me like a second heartbeat.
I'm not controlling my body anymore—it's moving on its own. The drinks have done their job, making everything feel slow and floaty at the same time.
My black mesh-sleeved dress hugs me just right. The air conditioning hits the sweat beading along my collarbone, sending delicious little shivers down my spine that make me dance harder.
Willow and I keep dancing, occasionally spinning each other around.
I catch glimpses of men watching us. One guy literally licks his lips while staring, and I can't help but laugh.
Real subtle, buddy.
"Bathroom!" Willow suddenly yells into my ear, making an exaggerated gesture toward the back of the club. "Need to pee!"
I nod emphatically and give her an absurd thumbs-up. She squeezes my arm—our universal "don't get murdered while I'm gone" signal—and disappears into the crowd.
Rather than retreat to our table, I keep dancing. I raise my arms over my head, letting my hips sway to the beat, my eyes half-closed in that tipsy trance where everything feels just right.
That's when I feel hands on my hips.
They're firm, confident hands that settle there like they've been invited. For a bizarre moment, I just let them stay. Partly because my drunk brain takes an extra second to process what's happening, but mostly because—and this is the truly pathetic part—the cologne. It drifts over me like a memory: sandalwood and something citrusy, with an undertone of something darker, richer. It's not identical to Eli's scent, but it's close enough that my stupid heart does a little backflip.
It's not him.
Of course it's not him.
Eli isn't here—and even if he were, he wouldn't be dancing with me. But for just a second, I let myself pretend. I let the fantasy bloom—that the hands on my waist are his. The only ones I've ever wanted there.
The stranger moves closer, his chest pressing against my back as we sway together. His hands grow bolder, sliding up my sides, tracing paths that feel increasingly like trespass rather than invitation.
I'm about to twist away, to shove him off with a well-practiced elbow to the ribs, when suddenly—he's gone. The absence is so abrupt that I stumble back, momentarily thrown off balance. I blink through the haze of strobe lights and vodka to see what happened.
And there he is. Eli. Not a fantasy or a figment of my drunk imagination, but actual flesh-and-blood Eli, all six-foot-four of him, gripping the stranger's arm in what looks like a vise grip. Even in the pulsing lights of the club, I can see the muscle in his jaw ticking—the universal sign of Eli about to lose his shit.
"Touch her again and I'll break every finger you've got."
The stranger looks like he's about to protest until recognition dawns on his face. I don't know if he knows Eli personally or just knows of him— the captain of the hockey team, guy whose bad side you definitely don't want to be on—but his bravado deflates instantly. He raises his hands in surrender and backs away, disappearing into the crowd without another word.
And then those green eyes, blazing with something that might be anger or might be something else entirely, lock onto mine.
"You're going home," he snarls, grabbing my wrist and tugging me toward the exit.
I try to dig my heels in—literally—but physics isn't on my side. Between the alcohol and Eli's determined stride, I'm barely keeping upright. "Get your hands off me!" I protest, yanking back against his grip. "I wasn't done dancing yet!"
He drags me through the crowd without looking back. People part for him like always.
"Eli! Let go!"
He doesn't stop until we're outside. The cold air hits me, and suddenly I realize how drunk I am. The club's music fades to a distant thump-thump-thump.
He pulls me to his blue Silverado and finally releases my wrist to yank open the passenger door.
"Get in," he orders, his voice clipped.
I rub my wrist. "No."
"Sam..." There's a warning in his voice, low and dangerous. "Get in the car."
"I am not leaving!" I cross my arms over my chest, trying to look defiant. "Besides, I didn't come alone. Willow's with me, and she's probably looking for me right now." I make to march back toward the club, but I only manage two steps before Eli slams the door so hard I feel it in my teeth.
"Fuck!" The word explodes out of him, making me flinch and freeze mid-step. I whirl around to face him.
He's heaving like he's run a mile, his chest rising and falling rapidly under his black t-shirt. The scowl etched into his face is so deep it looks painful, like his features are trying to crack apart. His whole body tense like he might snap.
"What is going on with you?" he demands.
"Uh, having fun?" I tilt my head and give him my best innocent smile. "Like what normal college girls do. I'm partying, dancing... you know, 'girls just wanna have fun.'" I actually shimmy my shoulders as I sing the last part, because apparently five shots of vodka have convinced me I'm hilarious.
"You call that having fun? Just dancing?" He takes a step closer. "Sam, you were getting wasted in there!"
He runs a hand through his hair, making it stand up in that way that should look stupid but somehow just makes him more irritatingly attractive.
"And that dancing—Jesus Christ, Sam. Did you not see how those guys were looking at you? Like you were a fucking all-you-can-eat buffet! If I hadn't been there—"
"If you hadn't been there, I would have handled it myself," I cut in, my voice sharper than I intended. "I didn't need rescuing, Eli. I'm a big girl. I can take care of myself."
He barks out a laugh that contains zero actual humor. "Oh, like how you were handling that asshole who tried to grope you? Yeah, seemed like you had that totally under control. And do you even know how many drinks you've had in the last two hours? I watched you slam back shot after shot—tequila, vodka, that weird cinnamon thing—then chase them with those pink cocktails, and whatever the hell that blue thing was."
I can't help the smirk that curves my lips.
The knowledge that he's been watching me long enough to count my drinks does something dangerous to my insides. "Wow, how long have you been stalking me from across the club, Eli? Should I be flattered or file a restraining order?"
"I wasn't—" He stops, exhales through his nose like a bull preparing to charge. "I came with Liam and Luke. They know the owner. We were at the bar when you and Willow came in."
"And what, you just happened to keep an eye on me all night? Out of the goodness of your heart?" I press a hand to my chest in mock gratitude. "My hero."
"Someone has to watch out for you since you clearly aren't watching out for yourself." His eyes narrow. "This isn't just tonight, Sam. You've been drinking every night. Coming home wasted, going to class hungover. What the hell is going on with you?"
My head jerks back a little. How does he know? For a wild moment I wonder if Zach told him, but that's impossible—they haven' t spoken in weeks. I shake my head slightly. It doesn't matter how he knows.
"And why do you care? I was minding my own business and not bothering you. So what's making your ass itch about it?"
His eyes flare.
"What you were doing was dangerous. Those guys in there weren't looking to just dance with you, Sam. They were looking for the drunkest girl they could find, and congratulations, tonight that was you." He takes another step closer, close enough that I can smell that damn cologne.
"And it is my responsibility to make sure you're safe when Zach's not around. You're my best friend's little sister—"
"Oh my God, enough with the 'best friend's sister' knight-in-shining-armor bullshit!" I throw my hands in the air and let out a sound that's half-groan, half-scream. "I'm so tired of you acting like you care about me. I was just having fun. I need to have fun! I need a distraction! I need to fucking breathe!"
"By getting wasted every night?" He stares at me a long moment, then swallows hard. "Is it because of me?"
For a second, I consider telling him the truth— that the cancer that almost killed me is back—but the words stick like glue to the roof of my mouth. I can't make myself that vulnerable in front of him, not right now. Not with him looking at me like I'm a nuisance.
So I go with a different truth instead.
"Well, maybe I'm just trying to drown myself in alcohol so that if I get lucky, I might get drunk enough to crack my skull open and forget I ever loved you." The words spill out bitter and sharp. "That way, you get rid of me and I get rid of this stupid, constant ache that's been eating me alive for years. A win-win. Because honestly, loving someone as cold and cruel as you is like having a parasite that's feasting on my soul."
His expression doesn't change, but something flickers in his eyes—a brief flash of what might be pain before the shutters come down again. He always closes them. Always.
"Well, if it hurts that much, don't you think that's a sign you should stop?" His voice is softer now but somehow more devastating. "I never asked you to love me, Samantha. You only have yourself to blame. From the very beginning, I told you I couldn't give you what you wanted. I warned you not to expect anything from me, that you'd just end up hurting. But you never listen. You never fucking listen."
A bitter laugh escapes me. "You think this was a decision?"
My vision blurs as hot tears well up, then spill over before I can stop them. I swipe at my cheeks with the back of my hand.
"You don't understand—I never had a choice." My voice cracks, and I hate myself for it.
"The second I saw you, it was over. I was done for. It was never just a crush, never some silly childhood thing like everyone thinks. For me, it was everything." I take a shuddering breath. "The moment I looked at you, something in me snapped into place—like my whole soul had just been waiting for yours to show up. It was like the universe branded you into me. You weren't just the first boy I ever saw—you were the only boy. And right then, my heart decided you'd be the only one I'd ever love in this life... maybe in any life."
Eli's face is unreadable, but his jaw tightens and his hands curl into fists.
"I could go blind tomorrow and I'd still find you in the dark," I continue, unable to stop now that the floodgates have opened. "I could lose everything and I'd still crawl back to you. You could push me away a thousand times and it wouldn't matter. I don't know how to stop, because there is no stop, Eli. Call it crazy, call it pathetic—I don't care. For me, there's only you."
The wind moves between us, cold and indifferent.
He's quiet for so long that I start to wonder if he even heard me.
Then, slowly, he shakes his head.
"Well, I don't care how you do it, what kind of sorcery you need to pull—I just want it to stop. I don't want this... I don't want you. I need you to stop feeling this way about me because it's already fucking suffocating."
He grips his throat like my love is physically choking him.
That gesture destroys me.
I stagger back half a step, my hand flying to my chest. The air leaves me in a short, sharp gasp that never fully makes it past my throat.
For a split second, his expression shifts from anger to something like horror, like he's only now hearing what he actually said.
"Fuck," he mutters, eyes widening as he sees the tears I can't hold back anymore.
He opens his mouth—maybe to twist the blade deeper—but a softer voice cuts through.
"Sam?" It's Willow. She must have come looking for me.
Her heels click sharply against the pavement as she reaches us, and without hesitation, she slips her arm around my shoulders.
"Oh my God," she mutters under her breath when she sees my face. "Are you okay?"
"Yeah," I swipe the tears from my cheeks with the heel of my palm. "I'm good."
Willow doesn't buy it for a second. Her head turns slowly toward Eli.
The look she gives him could melt steel. If she had laser vision, he'd be ash.
"I think I want to go home," I murmur, leaning slightly into her.
Willow nods. "Okay. Let's go."
"I'll take her." Eli says.
"No." The word comes out faster than I expect. Harder, too. "You don't have to."
His jaw clenches. "Sam—"
"I said no."
I can't sit in a car with him right now. Not when I feel this... cracked open. Not when I'm barely holding myself together.
"How exactly do you think you're getting home?" Eli demands, his voice clipped. "You're both too drunk to drive."
Willow gives a soft, humorless laugh. "Relax, hero. We didn't plan on it."
Eli flicks his gaze to her. "Then who's driving?"
"Our ride's on the way," she says coolly.
"Who?" he presses.
"Khol Carter," Willow replies, almost lazily. "You know. The star quarterback?"
I don't look at Eli right away but when I do, I see his features harden into stone.
"That's not a good—"
"I'm fine," I cut in, "You don't need to pretend that you care. So, you can go home."
The words taste bitter in my mouth.
Yeah, go home, Eli.
Away from me.
That's what you wanted, right?
Willow tightens her grip around my shoulders and gently turns me toward the club entrance.