Chapter 40 Rhea
The Hollow is dark except for a few lights when the Uber drops me off at the entrance.
I’m not drunk, but I wasn’t going to chance driving the Bronco and ending up in more debt than I already was.
The condo association just kept emailing me about damage costs as if any of it was my fault, and I was starting to think that selling it back to them at half price was my only option.
The vodka makes all the noise go quiet, but it doesn’t do anything to fade the unfamiliar rhythm of Brighton’s thrum beneath my chest.
I know he’s inside somewhere, probably cleaning up before retreating upstairs to his room. To the Little Dipper on his ceiling.
I tap the glass with my finger; the sound echoes on the other side. Before long, he wanders to the main door and pops it open for me. “What are you doing?” he asks, and I’m dying inside because those are the first words he’s said to me in twelve hours.
“I got a ride home,” I say, holding my tongue on the first bit.
“Right, Dungeons and Dragons night.” He nods. “How drunk are you?”
“Barely,” I say, and at least that was honest.
“You smell like powdered sugar,” he says when I slide past his chest and inside.
“Cosy made beignets, and I ate about four too many,” I admit.
“And you didn’t bring any home?” He scoffs, his tone teasing, but I’m stuck on the home part.
“You don’t know me at all.” I hold up a paper bag that’s full of them, and he gives me a look that vibrates down my spine.
“Can I have one?” He asks, politely.
“I don’t know, are you going to stop staring at me like you made a mistake?” I blurt, and his brow raises. When he doesn’t answer me, I only assume that it’s the truth. He regretted the kiss and me. I swallow roughly as he turns his back on me and wanders over to the music system beside the stage.
Soft music starts to play over the speakers as he moves through the room, flipping chairs up onto tables, before finding his way back to me. He takes the bag and sets it on the bar, taking my hand and spinning me in a circle gently. Just talk to me.
At first, the dance is stiff, the awkwardness that’s coming off me ruining whatever moment Brighton is trying to have, but eventually I give in to his arms and follow his lead.
“Did I make a mistake, Rhea?” he asks in that same expectant and commanding tone he always has.
He wants to know if I think he did, and for the last twelve hours, the answer has changed about a hundred times.
Because if the answer is yes, it’s a clean break.
We can attempt to go back to being friends.
I’ve pretended I’m fine in worse situations.
But if the answer is no, it changes the entire dynamic of our relationship, and that’s terrifying.
We’re just friends.
Friends who kiss?
“What song is this?” My brows crumple.
Brighton inhales slowly, looking away from me for a second. “Peach Tree, by Ethan Regan, I think.”
I smile at the side of his face as he thinks about it. “I thought you didn’t listen to new music?” I whisper, and he looks back at me.
“Some annoying girl with big sad eyes told me I need to expand my musical horizons.” He smiles back, softer than ever.
“She sounds smart,” I respond.
“She can be,” Brighton hums, and I scowl at him. “She’s also stubborn, messy, and emotional.”
“You forgot high maintenance,” I add.
“And petty.” He spins me in another circle.
“Very,” I laugh.
“She has this bad habit of not answering questions when she thinks she’s going to hurt someone’s feelings,” Brighton notes. He brings me back to him, my back against his chest, and his hand splayed out over my stomach. “Or when she feels like the answer might cause trouble.”
I close my eyes and let him dance us around for another long moment.
“Did I ruin it?” His voice is more cautious than I’ve ever heard him be, and it stings like a papercut, causing me to angle my face up to his as we dance. “It felt impulsive,” he adds.
“It was.” Our faces are close again, and I can feel his breath on my face as he works through his own thoughts.
“Do you still want to be my friend?” he asks.
I shake my head no.
“Do you still want to be my roommate?” he asks next.
And I nod.
“What else do you want?” he asks.
“I want you to kiss me again,” I say, watching his worry turn to contentment and maybe even happiness, which is a lot coming from Brighton. A softer, lazy smile forms on his lips, and before I can say anything else to convince him, he obliges my request.
“I’d also like you to take me upstairs now,” I say to him as he pulls away.
“You’ve got about three too many vodka shots in you for that tonight, Hellcat.” He grinds his jaw together and curls around me until his lips are back on mine, and he’s stealing all my air.
“Killjoy,” I whine.
"You think that'll work?" He challenges.
“How about… you carry me upstairs, bring the beignets, and we find out if dry-humping is as fun as I remember in high school.” I change my tactic.
“Who the hell were you dry-humping in high school?” Brighton chuckles, obliging my first request without thought. He scoops me up against him with both arms and adjusts my legs around his waist so he can hold me securely with one of them.
“Are you jealous?” I wrap my arms around his neck, and he turns his face away from me, but his jaw tightens again, like it always does when he’s pissed about something and trying to hide it.
“You are!” I kiss the spot where the muscle flexes beneath the skin, and he doesn’t hesitate to turn his face into the gesture, capturing my lips as he starts to move.
“We can dry hump if you want. I bet you’re really good at it. ”
He doesn’t stop as he swipes the bag off the counter and carries me upstairs.
“You aren’t eating these in my bed,” he warns, breathless as he climbs each step.
“Yeah, I am,” I argue, and it’s clear he knows it’s a losing fight because he doesn’t say a single thing before popping the lock and letting us inside.
He takes us down the hall and into his room, setting me down on the bed before disappearing from the space altogether.
“You could have left them,” I call out to him.
When he returns, he’s free of his Hollow uniform, back into his loose pajama pants, and holding out a bottle of water for me.
“That’s so unfair,” I groan.
Brighton raises an eyebrow at me.
“Disposing of my treats, taking your shirt off, not letting me…” I trail off and stop talking because the things on my mind aren’t appropriate.
“Are you done complaining?” he asks me, and I shrug.
“Probably not,” I answer.
“I didn’t dispose of your treats, and I wasn’t sleeping in that shirt. It smells like booze and smoke,” he explains. “I can find something else to wear if it’s making you uncomfortable.” He’s so serious all the time, and all I can do is start laughing.
“You left out the most disappointing part.” I pout.
“You aren’t touching anything,” he groans, “until you’re sober. I need know it’s what you want and that it's not the sugar high and vodka talking.” He looks so sure of himself, I can’t even argue.
“Please just get into bed, and give me my beignets back,” I demand, and he listens to the first part, shooing me away from the edge so he can get comfortable on his side.
He rests against the headboard with one of his knees bent, and I slide into the space between his thighs, wrapping my calves around his hips and resting my hands on his stomach.
I’ve been waiting to touch you for weeks.
“Sorry, what was that?” Brighton’s brows furrow. “Weeks?”
Oh God.
“Did I say that out loud?” I slap my hand over my mouth.
“How many shots did you actually have?” he asks again.
“One too many, apparently,” I giggle. “I was told the treats still exist, and if you lied to me, I’m going to dump you.”
“Dump me?” he asks. “Moving a little fast there, Hellcat?” I can’t tell if he’s teasing me or not, and I freeze, trying to read him, but there’s a little smirk on his face, and his eyes are the lightest shade of blue I’ve ever seen.
“We’re working backwards here, I've already moved in…” I throw out the joke, and mid-sentence, he sits up, presses his hand into my hair, and takes my bottom lip between his.
“About those beignets…” I say jokingly as he pulls back slightly, this warrants a long groan from his throat, but he reaches to the bedside table to grab them.
I, too distracted and too drunk to notice he had even set them there, hum with excitement.
“Open up,” he says, cradling the bowl in one hand and grabbing a beignet between his fingers with the other.
“You’re gonna feed it to me?” I sit up a little straighter, hyperfixated on the way his eyes follow my every movement.
“It’s the only way to ensure you don’t get powdered sugar all over my bed,” he says and holds it out to me.
I wrap my lips around it without breaking eye contact, and I feel his whole body go taut.
I chew the confection with a smile on my face as he steals the other half and cleans his fingers.
“These are really good,” he says, as I lick my bottom lip and look up at the stars on the ceiling.
“Did you do that on purpose?” I ask about them, brave with liquor and high on his gaze.
He nods.
“Hit me,” I point to the bowl and ignore how warm his quiet confession makes me feel. “You know the girls—”
“I don’t care, Rhea,” Brighton cuts in. “Whatever they said about this. I don’t care.
” It’s not that he doesn't care about them or their opinions; it's that he holds what’s going on between us in high regard. I see that. It’s written all over his handsome face.
“Even Day.” He cuts off my thoughts as they come through.
“You four share everything. Let me be selfish with you. Just for a little while, until we—”
“Figure this out?” I finish for him, and he grabs my chin with a stern nod. “Okay,” I whisper as he kisses me gently, our bodies leaning against each other as it deepens and unlocks all the closed doors between us.
“You taste like vodka,” he groans against my mouth.
“And sugar,” I giggle and keep kissing him.
“And sugar,” he confirms, tangling that hand back into my hair, setting the bowl aside, and pulling me down against him until there’s no space between us anymore.