Prologue #3
A rush of heat spears through my chest, and I realize there is one way I can deny him, at least—by making the first move.
I let myself sway from side to side, then tip forward until my lips crash into his.
He tastes like candy, I think wildly. Watermelon-sweet. Are archenemies supposed to taste like candy? But then the warmth of his mouth moving against mine chases all thoughts out of my head entirely, and all I want is to taste more.
I quickly discover that Wesley kisses the same way he argues.
For every move I make, he has to have a pointed response of his own.
As I roll off the beanbag to straddle his hips, he winds his arm behind my waist and flips me onto my back until he’s braced above me.
As I deepen the kiss and tangle my tongue with his, he makes a sound low in his throat and nips at my lower lip.
The moments blur until they’re just color and sensation, hastily murmured questions of Is this okay?
and Does this feel good?, and groans I never thought I’d hear from Wesley’s lips.
Somehow we stumble to our feet, and I guide him until the backs of his legs are pressed to the edge of my bed.
I don’t know where my socks go, or my skirt—or Wesley’s damp pants and linen shirt.
All I know is the warmth of his palm pressed against my ribs, of his thumb gliding underneath the fabric of my bra, as we tumble onto the mattress.
I’m briefly horrified to let him see me flushed and giddy. Vulnerable.
But he’s coming undone, too—his outfit wrinkled and discarded, his control unraveling in the face of undisguised desire. I can’t remember a time when he looked so unguarded.
I’m thrilled to see him thrown so far off his game—a game I feel like I am somehow winning—but before we go any further, I stop to take a breath as the reality of the situation takes root in my brain.
Wesley Locke is half naked in my bed.
Delight, shock, and a knot of other conflicting emotions swell in my chest. But Wesley distracts me, turning my face to his and tucking a strand of my long dark hair behind my ear.
“What are you doing this summer, Reagan?” he asks.
He doesn’t have to say where he’s headed. He shared it often enough in class as soon as he was hired. After graduation, he’ll start immediately at Hurricane Studios in Boston, the titan video game studio best known for the hugely popular MMO Legends of Lore, among other games.
“I’ll be here.” I keep telling myself I want to work on my own projects and spend a few more months with Mona and my family before signing my time over to a studio.
It distracts me from the fact that I still haven’t heard back from Uproar Games after my interview last week, and none of my other applications have gotten me anywhere.
Yet, I tell myself, it’s only been a few weeks since I started applying. It’s still early.
Wesley clears his throat. “Boston’s not so far away.”
“It isn’t, is it?” I muse softly.
We hold each other’s gazes for a long moment, and I wonder what he’s implying. I wonder if this is the closest he’ll get to asking me to visit.
His eyes dance away from mine. “Imagine a summer off, where we’re not competing, not always at each other’s throats.”
“I like it when you’re at my throat.” I’ve never gone so far as to admit this to myself, but as soon as it’s out of my mouth, I know it’s true.
“Do you?”
Experimentally, Wesley presses his lips to the side of my neck, right under my ear. His nose dips to trace the crook of my shoulder, and he runs his teeth along my collarbone.
I swallow, eyes wide, intensely distracted. “Competition’s a big motivator for me,” I say with difficulty.
“You were the only one who could ever keep up, Reagan.”
I huff, and I’m not sure if it’s a laugh or a scoff. I think about protesting that he was racing to keep up with me at least half of the time, that we were often completely, infuriatingly evenly matched, how—
But by the soft curve of his mouth, by the appearance of that damned dimple—he already knows. He’s goading me.
He’s always goading me.
“Fuck you,” I say fondly. I’m slurring my words, but it’s hardly the alcohol at this point.
Sleep fuzzes the edges of my vision. I feel deliciously wrung out and cozy with Wesley’s head curled on my shoulder.
I don’t know if I want to sink into sleep or find out what’s under the thin layer of clothes he still has on.
He hums a laugh into my sternum and—always the one to ruin a good time—begins to gently extricate himself from our tangle of limbs.
I make a groan of protest, but he smiles and shakes his head. “Just going to grab some water, okay?”
“Mm.”
Pillowing my cheek against my arm, I watch as Wesley bends to pluck his clothes from the floor.
The flickering screen of our paused game makes his pale skin glow, highlighting the way his lips press into a thin line of discomfort as he slowly unpeels his shirt from his pants, both still damp from the rain.
I snort. Bending over, I fish a shirt and sweatpants from the drawers under my bed frame. “Here.”
“The second rescue of the night.”
He balls his clothes together and tosses them to the corner of the room.
Given that he’s got only a couple inches on me, it’s amusing how well my clothes fit him.
The black sweatpants hang loose from his hips where they’d normally hug my curves, while the faded blue fabric of the shirt stretches across his shoulders.
He turns, and I see the shirt’s white logo, a twenty-sided die bracketed by two palm trees under the words Miami Dice, splayed across his chest. It was a gift from my dad, who found a local game store on one of his many business trips to Florida. I smirk seeing Wesley in it.
He stands over me and runs his fingers through my hair. I lean into his palm and shut my eyes again.
“I’ll bring you some water, too,” he says.
I probably need it, considering how much my head continues to swim. But it’s only a gentle churning, a current easing me to sleep. Music flares briefly as Wesley opens the door and steps into the hallway, fading to a murmur as the door snicks shut.
I don’t know how much time passes before I wake up again, curled to one side of an otherwise empty bed. The sunlight isn’t its usual gentle glow from my window but two bright knives shoved straight into my eyeballs. I don’t know if it’s the hangover or dehydration—probably both. I need—
Water.
Confused, I frown and briefly wonder if I dreamed the whole night up. But there’s no ignoring the tangled sheets at the foot of my bed, the pile of now-dry clothes thrown into the corner, or the still-flickering screen of our paused game.
Icy realization slides cold fingers down the length of my spine.
Rage first: Surely he wouldn’t have. This would be low, even for him. Surely I’ve misunderstood.
Then, sour bitterness: I should have known better.
I’m out of bed in an instant, shoving my legs through a pair of shorts and my head through a hoodie.
I throw the door open, following the path Wesley would have taken out of my room, through the hallway, around the couches and the dancing bodies in the living room, and into the kitchen.
Wearing my clothes. Had he winked at his friends?
Had Owen tried to talk to him? Would Nali have accused him of murdering me and stealing my stuff, since the last thing in the world she would have believed is that we’d—
The living room’s a mess, but it’s empty, save for the bundle of blankets on the couch where Owen or Eddie sometimes crash after a rowdy night.
Owen is alone in the kitchen now, heating up a Hot Pocket in the microwave.
He turns to me, and the pity and slight betrayal in his eyes has me feeling immediately sick.
“He left hours ago,” he says.
“Oh,” I say.
Into the silence that fills the kitchen, the microwave beeps three times.
I never hear from Wesley Locke again.