Chapter 16
Reece
Jace’s trailer reeks of weed and stale energy drinks—the same old smell as always. The couch sinks halfway to the floor the moment I sit down, and there’s a suspicious stain on the armrest that I don’t ask about.
Jace is slouched across from me in a busted camping chair, one leg kicked up on the coffee table, wearing that permanently stoned grin that makes me want to throw something at him.
I’m not here to hang out. Just passing time between pretending I’m fine and showing up at Sam’s place with notes I definitely didn’t rewrite three fucking times. My head’s still spinning from the way she came apart on my cock, then ghosted me as if none of it mattered.
I drag a hand down my face, jaw clenched, every nerve still frayed and raw. I haven’t jerked off since before that night. Not because I haven’t wanted to, fuck, I’ve tried. More than once. But every time my hand moves, she’s there.
The way her lips parted when she came, her breath catching just before she shattered, the way she whispered my name.
And then I lose it.
My cock goes soft. I get angry because my hand’s not her. There’s no heat, no taste, no breath against my throat. Just sweat, frustration, and a reminder that I’m alone.
No amount of friction can shake her loose from me. She’s everywhere. Under my skin. In my sheets. In my damn bloodstream.
And now I’m stuck—hard for a girl who doesn’t want me. Obsessed with a memory I can’t replace, ruined by the only fuck that ever meant more than it should’ve.
A bottle cap hits my chest. I look up and see Jace grinning at me.
“You look like your dick got rejected and your puppy ran away.”
I huff out a breath, dragging a hand across my jaw. “Fuck off, Jace.”
He just grins wider, slumped back in his busted chair like he’s watching the best kind of train wreck.
I don’t give him the satisfaction of reacting more than that. My head’s a mess, and he knows it. Hell, anyone would, with the way I’ve been walking around this week like my skin doesn’t fit right.
I lean back, eyes fixed on the yellowed ceiling, trying to let the silence drown her out. It doesn’t. She’s there anyway. In every thought, every beat of my pulse, every fucking breath. I thought that coming here would shake her loose—kill the ache and ease the pain.
It’s only worse.
Jace takes another drag and exhales. “You good?”
I don’t look at him. I’m fucking falling apart, and the worst part is I let it happen. I let her get in.
Jace flicks ash into an empty Coke can and watches me, waiting for me to crack.
He senses something’s wrong. But I’m not going to give him the satisfaction of a confession, not when the truth sounds as fucking pathetic as I can’t stop thinking about this girl who bolted the second I pulled my cock out of her.
I’d never hear the end of it, especially from him.
He yawns as if he’s bored. “Jesus, you’ve got that look. All fucked up over someone you’re not supposed to be fucked up over.”
I watch the smoke curl from the joint in his fingers. “Don’t.”
“Don’t what?” he smirks. “Say the thing we’re both thinking?”
“I didn’t come here for therapy.”
“Yeah, well, maybe you should’ve. You’ve been weird as shit ever since—”
“Drop it.” My tone silences him, mostly.
A long moment passes. The couch creaks under me as I shift, elbows on my knees, eyes fixed on the stain near my boot. I hate how much I want to talk about her.
I run my thumb along the edge of my jaw and settle back in my seat. “What’s the deal with you and Lola?”
He freezes.
Then he exhales a short laugh, dragging a hand over his mouth. “Is that a deflection, or do you actually give a shit?”
“I give a shit.”
“Since when?”
“Since you actually listen when she talks. That’s new.”
He raises his eyebrows. “Look at you, getting all observant.”
“Shut up and answer the fucking question.”
Jace tilts his head back, eyes on the ceiling. “She’s… I don’t know. Not what I expected.”
“You fucking her?”
“No.”
I wait.
He glances at me. “I mean, not yet.”
“But you want too?”
“Yeah, glasses or not, she’s a fucking babe. But it’s not just that. There’s something about her, man. It feels different. She makes me feel... fuck, I dunno. Like I’m not just some stoner fuck-up with a big mouth.”
I watch him for a second. The smug grin has disappeared. His tone is serious, perhaps the most serious I’ve ever heard from him.
“You really like her,” I say.
“Don’t make it a thing.”
“It’s already a thing, man.”
He groans. “Fuck off.” He flips me off, but there’s no anger in it.
Jace shifts in his chair, foot still hooked on the edge of the coffee table, with one brow cocked in a way that signals he’s about to stir some shit.
“So,” he starts, tapping ash into the can, “what’s the deal with Cherry Girl?”
My eyes snap to his. “Don’t call her that.”
“Touchy.” He grins, wide and knowing.
“She’s not a joke.” I lean forward, elbows on my knees.
“Didn’t say she was,” he says, but his smirk softens a little. “I just meant… she’s got you spun. I’ve seen you with girls, man. You’re in and out before they know what hit ‘em. But her? You’re walking around like your soul left with her panties.”
“Fuck off,” I snort, even though he’s not wrong.
He leans forward, elbows on his knees. “You’re the one who made the bet, remember?”
“Yeah. I fucking remember.” My jaw is clenched, regret tasting like blood in the back of my throat.
Jace shifts, watching me too close. Reading shit I’m not ready to admit.
“You tapped that already, didn’t you?”
“No.”
His brow rises. “Bullshit.”
“I said no.” My voice is sharper this time. I shift in my seat, stare past his shoulder at the busted blinds and peeling wallpaper, refusing to give him more. My chest feels too tight; lungs are stuck somewhere behind all the things I can’t say.
His eyes drop to the bag at my feet. “What’s with the schoolboy gear? You headed somewhere?”
“Yeah, Sam’s. We have an assessment to finish.”
Jace lets out a sharp bark of a laugh. “Assessment. Fucking hell. Is that what we’re calling it now? You showing up all eager with your little backpack, hoping she’ll reward you with extra credit? Maybe a gold star for effort—right before she wraps her pretty mouth around your cock?”
My jaw snaps shut. “I told you. I haven’t fucked her.”
He falls silent, eyes fixed on mine, as if he’s peeling back skin and reading what’s bleeding underneath.
I don’t give him the chance to say whatever smartass line he’s loading behind that smug smirk.
I grab the strap of my bag, slide it over my shoulder, and head toward the broken door.
“See ya later, asshole,” I mutter just before walking out.
Jace calls after me. “Try not to bust a nut all over her textbook, Romeo!”
I slide the strap over my shoulder and walk down the long driveway that curves past the main house—white pillars, manicured hedges, a fountain that’s more for show than function.
It’s the kind of place that tries too hard to hide anything messy.
That money can mask rot. The house you look at and think picture perfect—if you don’t know the shit buried underneath.
I spot her.
Jace’s aunt, elbows deep in her rose garden, sunhat perched on her perfect hair as if she just stepped out of a fucking magazine. She straightens as I pass, hands covered in soil, but her eyes are hard. That stare, which strips you bare in one sweep, finds you lacking.
Her lips purse. Disapproval drips from every wrinkle on her face.
She looks at me the same way she looks at Jace—breathing reminders of everything she’s tried to keep hidden behind ironed curtains and whitewashed walls.
I nod once, more out of habit than anything else, and keep walking. She doesn’t need to say a thing. Her silence screams loud enough. I’m a piece of shit.
By the time I reach Sam’s Street, the sun’s high in the sky, glaring down as if it has something personal against me.
Her house sits perfectly — not a blade of grass out of place.
White curtains are drawn, flower pots are lined up neatly on the porch, each one screaming clean and polite.
It’s a place that smells like rules and casseroles.
The kind that would eat a guy like me alive if I stepped too far over the threshold.
I knock once.
Then again, harder.
The door creaks open, and her dad fills the frame.
Tall. Cold. Dressed in a stiff-collared shirt that probably never wrinkles or sweats.
He stares at me as if I just keyed his car.
Doesn’t say a word, just scans me slowly from head to toe, dragging his gaze over my creased shirt, the strap of my bag, and the bruises still blooming across my knuckles as if they’re the bad decisions I never learned from.
His jaw clenches.
I lift my chin, meet his stare, and pretend the heat crawling up my neck is from the sun rather than the fact that I already know I’m the story he hopes doesn’t happen to his daughter.
I clear my throat, voice low. “I’m here to help, Sam. With the assignment.”
His expression remains unchanged. He simply glares at me, with a stare that makes you reconsider every bad decision you’ve ever made. I half-expect him to grab a shovel and start digging my grave in the front yard.
“Sam,” he calls out, voice sharp enough to cut right through concrete, eyes still locked on me. “Your friend’s here.”
Friend. That’s fucking generous.
Sam rounds the corner, ponytail swinging. She spots her dad, then me, then there’s a heavy silence between us. She moves quickly, reaching for my arm as if trying to shield me from a firing squad, and pulls me past him before he can load another bullet.
Her fingers tighten around my wrist.
I let her pull me in, not because I fear her dad, but because if she wasn’t standing there looking at me like she needs me to move, I might’ve turned around and walked the fuck away.
We don’t talk. Just move quickly.
Her fingers stay wrapped around my wrist, warm and firm, pulling me up the stairs like she’s afraid I’ll vanish if she loosens her grip.