Chapter Seventeen #2
I feel his fingertips hot on my skin. Experimentally, they trace a line down between my shoulder blades to rest respectfully right above my waist. Then I feel the weight of his palm as he settles it snugly against my bare back, fingers curling in a way that’s almost…possessive.
“Is this okay?” he murmurs.
I suppress a shiver. “Yes,” I breathe.
But then I realize how awkward this might look—me standing frozen with my hands at my sides.
If Mona were watching, it would immediately set off alarm bells that would have her stomping over to confront Wesley for his audacity.
I can only pray that she’s so engaged with Shay’s parents that none of them sees us at all.
But if we’re going to make a convincing show of it for Owen’s sake, Wesley can’t be the only one acting.
I splay my fingers over his ribs, feel the hard plane of his chest underneath the soft fabric of his shirt. With my other hand, I touch his collarbone, gliding my pointer finger up to his neck. “Your paint is smearing.” Why do I sound breathless? “Your bite marks.”
“Fix them for me?”
I lick the tip of my middle finger and draw it down his neck, touching up where his sweat smeared the red body paint.
I almost want to leave my fingertips there, press them into his skin until I feel his pulse.
Is it racing the way mine is? I’m just keyed up, I tell myself.
Annoyed. It’s been months since I’ve seen Owen, and I don’t want to talk to him.
It is not because of the way Wesley’s looking at me from under those long lashes, his eyes half lidded and dark.
It’s most definitely not because of the way his hand is sliding lower, dipping to where my belt circles my waist. Just the slightest rock forward, and I could press my lips to his.
It’s not like we haven’t done it before.
By the way his gaze dips down to my mouth, I can only imagine he’s considering the same thing—or making a very convincing show of it.
Such a good actor, I think again, with a heady mix of admiration and regret.
I look over his shoulder again, but I don’t see any sign of Owen. I exhale through my nose. “Okay,” I say. “I think he’s gone.”
Like magnets being pulled apart, we move in slow motion, struggling against the unseen gravity drawing us together. I wrap my arms around my middle, cupping my elbows in each hand, while Wesley blinks a few times as if clearing his vision.
Just as he tips forward slightly, I start, “I’m going to go find—”
“I think I need another—”
We both pause, and Wesley lets out an awkward laugh. “Let me know if he bothers you again, okay?”
“Sure.”
Wesley takes three steps backward before turning on his heel and returning to the kitchen to join Colin, who’s deep in a loud, heated conversation with someone I don’t recognize about Legends of Lore.
Air, I think suddenly. Air would be good.
I weave through the guests until I find my way out the back door of the house, where the party continues on Arthur’s sprawling deck and in his lush backyard.
A small garden sits to one side, and games like cornhole and a gigantic Jenga tower litter the rest of the lawn.
Spooky music pumps out from a speaker, and groups of people cluster together, laughing at Arthur’s gargoyle-shaped lawn ornaments and—
Aha. The skeleton circle, of course.
Plastic skeletons ring the entirety of the backyard, and at its center bubbles a cauldron of something I’m sure is dizzyingly alcoholic. I admire it from the deck, leaning against a banister as the chill autumn air cools my still-burning neck and cheeks.
A warm, wet nose presses insistently at the back of my calf, and I look down to meet the wide eyes of a very sweet elderly chocolate Lab wearing Yoda ears.
“Hello, Solo,” I say formally, smiling despite myself. With how many pictures Arthur, Shay, and sometimes Mona share of him in our group chat, I’m familiar with him at this point. “And how are you doing this evening?”
I bend down to pet the dog’s head, and he licks my wrist happily. As I move to straighten his costume ears, a bastard’s shadow falls over us.
I look up and scowl.
Owen must have been waiting for this moment, biding his time until Wesley stepped away.
His shoulders aren’t nearly wide enough to pull off a convincing Jon Snow, and his faux fur–topped cloak looks particularly bedraggled.
While his beard suits the costume, his overgrown mousy brown curls just look unkempt.
He would have made a better Littlefinger. Traitor.
I stand immediately. Solo sniffs Owen’s cloak and then trots away to find attention elsewhere. He’s clearly a dog of taste.
Owen regards me with a sullen scowl. “Really, Reagan? You’re here with Wesley Locke?”
I set my jaw. “I’m here with my D of all people, he has no right to feel that way.
“I’m playing this time, actually. Wesley DMs.”
Owen releases a hollow, unhappy laugh. “From what I saw in the hallway, it looks like he does more than DM.”
I feel an ugly twist of satisfaction in my chest. Good.
Our little show worked. “Maybe,” I say. It’s not exactly a lie.
“But that’s not really any of your business anymore, is it?
” None of it is—not whom I’m spending my time with, or the details of my new D I hadn’t realized how close they were getting to my ears.
The hand shifts upward to circle securely around the back of my neck.
Behind me, Wesley says, “I got your seltzer,” though I hadn’t asked for another one. “Everything okay here?”
Owen’s pale eyes shift to look at Wesley over my shoulder.
And then, inexplicably, Wesley inhales sharply, and his hold stiffens.
For a long moment, no one speaks, but I’m done with this. “Everything’s fine,” I say. “Owen was just leaving.” I fix him with a glare.
Owen’s jaw flexes, like he’s trying to work himself up to say something, but then he just stalks off with a sigh.
When Wesley doesn’t move, I spin to face him. Emotions war on his features: annoyance, determination, and, most puzzling of all, confusion. He looks down at me, brows knitted together on his forehead.
“That’s your ex? The same guy from college?”
“You knew him?” Owen certainly knew who Wesley was, from all the shit I used to talk about him, but Owen wasn’t in a lot of the advanced classes I had with Wes. Their paths might have never crossed.
“I—not really,” he says. “I didn’t know his name. But wasn’t he there that night?”
I don’t have to ask which night he’s talking about. “He was,” I say slowly. “Why?”
“I just…I wasn’t expecting to recognize him. That’s all.” His gaze is distant for a moment before he blinks and is back with me, concern etched on his face. “Are you okay?”
It’s cold enough that I can see my breath when I release a long sigh. “I’m fine. Miserable people say miserable things.” I glance to where Wesley toys with the stem of a wineglass, a change from what he had earlier. Red wine. Of course. After all that discomfort, it feels good to laugh.
“You’re really committing to the bit, aren’t you?” I tease.