33. Chapter Thirty-Three - Wrong Choices
By the time I reached home, I was seething, trapped by my own choices.
As though I’d painted myself into a tight corner where pretending I didn’t give a damn was the only move left, even as inside I was coming apart at the seams from how much I craved him.
Deep down, I knew this mess was my own damn fault.
And yet, even after I’d stormed off and walked myself home while he must still have been in class, I was startled when I wasn’t getting any calls from him.
I thought he was keeping all his tabs on me, so it was surprising and a little unnerving.
It made sense, though, because I didn’t really matter much to him from the very beginning.
I was just a cute toy he could play with for the time being.
So when Carter texted me, smug and assumptive, already acting like it was because of his dick that I was asking for him, my stomach twisted.
I shoved my phone aside like it had personally betrayed me.
If I was going to do it, then I had to commit.
I went straight for my closet, yanking hangers aside, my movements sharp and restless.
I needed the right outfit. Something that hugged my waist, something that cinched and skimmed in all the ways Carter had openly drooled over last time.
I was going to make Culver regret what he did to me.
Putting me through his little games… well, I could do the same.
Unfortunately, I was too quick to put myself through it, knowing Carter was not what I wanted. Not compared to what I felt for Culver.
The doorbell rang while I was still zipping my boots.
I froze, my heart leaping stupidly into my throat, a part of me half hoping, half expecting to open the door and find Culver there instead, wild-eyed, possessive, ready to drag me back inside and tell me I wasn’t allowed to go anywhere without him.
But when I opened the door, it was Carter.
He looked good, objectively. Polished in a frat-boy way, but it landed flat.
All I could think about was how forgettable he was, how bland every inch of him felt compared to the velvet threat in Culver’s voice.
No matter how smooth Carter tried to be, he’d never touch the ache, the low electric pull that lived in me whenever Culver so much as looked my way.
So I smiled with cold politeness.
“Carter,” I said, my lips curving into a practiced expression. I shut the door behind me, the sound echoing with the finality that I was doing this for revenge and not for pleasure.
He didn’t even glance back, already heading toward the car like my presence was assumed. It was rushed and careless, and the contrast hit me.
Culver always walked beside me. He matched my steps like leaving me behind would physically hurt him.
I trailed after Carter, tugging my coat tighter as the evening air brushed cold against my exposed skin. I wasn’t really cold. I just felt wrong, like I’d stepped into the wrong scene entirely.
Inside the car, I tapped my manicured nail against the door in a slow, rhythmic click, the sound too loud in the quiet space.
My body was there, but my mind wasn’t. Every part of me was still stretched toward Culver, waiting for a call I already knew wasn’t coming.
The images of his mouth pressed to the woman’s throat haunted me.
I was holding myself together through sheer stubbornness.
I glanced out the window, my eyes drifting over the dark stretch of trees, and for a split second I saw him.
He was standing there, tall and still like a shadow.
My heart stuttered violently as I turned for a better look, but there was nothing there.
It was just shadows and my own obsession bleeding into the night.
I let out a sharp breath and told myself to get a grip.
Culver wasn’t there. It was just my brain, painting him into places he couldn’t be, haunting me like something unfinished. God, I was spiraling.
“Are you in any sports?” I asked suddenly, the question tumbling out just to ground myself, to pull me back into the present. My voice sounded lighter than I felt.
“Football,” Carter replied, clipped and flat.
“Oh… like actual American football, or the soccer thing?” I asked, searching for anything resembling conversation.
He snorted. “Yeah, the soccer shit Americans call it.”
Right. That tracked.
“You?” he asked, finally glancing my way.
“No sports,” I said, shaking my head. “I dance, though.”
“Dancing,” he repeated, his voice dipping like he thought it was charming. “Makes sense. You were grindin’ on me like a proper pro last time.”
I flinched, subtle but instinctive.
“Pretty much,” I forced out, smiling through the discomfort as my mind flashed back to that night. The alcohol and the way my body had moved without permission. If only I knew then what I knew now.
Silence settled again, heavy and awkward.
Talking to guys had never been my strong suit.
I always leaned in too far, gave too much too fast, and ended up feeling foolish for it.
They wanted my mouth, sure, but never my thoughts.
When it fell apart, I was always left wondering why I bothered speaking at all.
A familiar nausea curled in my stomach, sour and unwelcome.
I pressed a hand there, breathing through it, trying to push down the memories that came with it.
What the fuck am I even doing here?
All because I wanted to get back at Culver.
He probably didn’t even know I was out here about to fuck Carter, but I would make sure to send him a photo.
He needed to see that I was unbothered, even though I was so fucking bothered by it all.
I wanted to cry about it and sit in my rage, but I also wanted to take action before he soothed me back into a false sense of security.
He was just another fuckboy, just like the one sitting next to me.
“Here,” Carter said abruptly.
I lifted my gaze to the house, my stomach tightening as I took in the size of it, the sheer number of people already pouring in and out.
Music thumped through the walls, bass vibrating through the ground like a second heartbeat.
Parties were supposed to be fun and exhilarating, but this one felt icky for some reason.
I swallowed my hesitation and stepped out of the car.
I’d done this to myself, though, so I couldn’t falter now.
Carter didn’t slow down for me. He moved ahead with the same easy confidence he’d had since the moment he arrived, like the night had already bent itself around him and there was no reason to check whether I was keeping up.
I followed anyway, the gravel crunching beneath my boots as the sound of music grew louder and thicker, vibrating through my bones before we even reached the door.
The front lawn was already packed, bodies clustered together in loose groups, laughter spilling too loudly into the cold night air, cigarette smoke curling upward and disappearing into the dark.
The house itself loomed behind them, lights glowing from nearly every window, curtains half-drawn like the place was breathing, pulsing with the movement inside.
Bass thudded through the walls, steady and relentless.
Heat hit me instantly. Thick and heavy and layered with perfume, sweat, and alcohol.
The air felt used, like it had already been breathed too many times.
Music pounded loud enough to rattle the windows, every beat landing straight in my chest. People pressed close in the entryway, shoulders brushing, hands grazing unintentionally and sometimes not.
Carter navigated through it all like it was second nature, cutting paths through clusters of people, tossing out greetings, slapping shoulders, and laughing like it was exactly where he belonged.
I stayed close. Not because I wanted to, but because losing him in this crowd felt like it would somehow make things worse, even if he was someone I didn’t really trust.
He stopped suddenly at a long table near the kitchen, cluttered with empty cups and half-full bottles, the sticky surface catching the light. Without asking, he grabbed two red solo cups, filled them with something amber and sharp-smelling, and shoved one into my hand.
“Better than last time, promise,” he said, flashing a grin and winking like he thought that alone made it true.
The shift was jarring. In the car, he’d barely spoken or even looked at me. Here, surrounded by people, he was animated, charming, and loud.
I stared down at the cup. The smell was awful, syrupy and burning at the same time.
My stomach turned, but I didn’t say anything.
I tilted my head back and drank it anyway, swallowing quickly just to get it over with.
The alcohol burned its way down, unpleasant, but the distraction was welcome.
I set the empty cup down on the nearest surface without caring where it ended up.
“Cheers,” Carter said, tossing his back too. He let out a loud burp immediately after, laughing at himself like it was charming instead of disgusting.
Then his arm slid around my waist, and I stiffened.
“Now, c’mere, love,” he said, already pulling me closer as he steered us deeper into the house.
His touch wasn’t reassuring. It was casual in the worst way, his hand resting against my hip like he was already bored of holding it there.
As we moved, his fingers wandered, tracing my side and my lower back like he was claiming territory rather than touching me.
My stomach flipped uneasily, making me wish I could pull away without making a scene.
Just a few hours, I told myself. Just enough to prove a point to Culver.
We stopped constantly. Carter greeted what felt like half the people in the room, his voice lifting, his laughter coming easy. With every new face, more of his personality surfaced, like he’d been waiting for an audience. He didn’t really want me. I was just second-rate whore territory.