Chapter 19
CHAPTER NINETEEN
The bass throbs through the floorboards, rattling my teeth.
I’ve slipped through the front door—wide open, propped with a dirty sneaker—and nobody even glances my way.
A girl in a bikini top stumbles past, laughing too loudly, drink sloshing over the rim of her red Solo cup.
Someone's broken a lamp. Glass glitters on the hardwood floor like scattered diamonds.
I press against the wall, taking it all in. Bodies everywhere. Dancing, grinding, shouting over the music. The air reeks of beer and something sickly sweet—vanilla vodka, maybe. A couple makes out in the corner by the stairs, his hands roaming places that make me look away fast.
My heart hammers against my ribs. Can't breathe. Can't think. The music pounds in my skull and my heels pinch my toes, and these jeans suddenly feel three sizes too small, cutting into my waist, making me want to rip them off and run.
Nobody here knows me. Nobody cares. But I feel exposed, like a spotlight's following me around, broadcasting twenty-six-year-old woman crashes teen party.
I weave through the crowd toward the kitchen, following the scent of stale beer. A metal keg sits in a plastic tub of melted ice, surrounded by abandoned cups and crushed cans. I grab a cup from the stack, fill it halfway. Not drinking it. Just need to look normal. Blend in.
A lanky boy with shaggy blond hair sidles up next to me, grinning. "Never seen you before."
"First time." I force a smile, scanning the room over his shoulder. No sign of Dylan yet.
"Cool, cool. I'm Tyler. What's your name?"
"Sophia."
"That's hot. You go to Cumberland High?"
"No." I edge away, clutching the cup like a shield. "Just visiting."
"Oh, sick. Well, if you need—"
"Thanks, I'm good." I slip past him before he can finish, my pulse hammering.
Dylan's photo burns in my mind—dark hair buzzed, sharp jawline, intense tattoo curling up his neck. I've memorized every detail. If he's here, I'll know.
I just need to find him before my nerves give out completely.
The basement reeks of mildew and spilled beer. My ankle boots stick to the concrete floor with every step. A group clusters around the pool table, whooping and trash-talking, backlit by a single bare bulb swinging overhead.
And there he is.
Dylan leans over the table, cue balanced in his fingers as he lines up the shot. He sinks the eight-ball with a sharp crack, and his opponent—some kid in a backwards cap—groans and tosses a crumpled dollar bill at him.
I edge closer, heart in my throat. "Can I play the winner?"
My voice comes out breathy. Flirty. Nothing like me.
Both guys do a double-take. Dylan straightens, his gaze dragging over me in a way that makes my skin crawl. But he's smiling. They both are.
"Sure thing." Dylan twirls the cue, cocky. "Break's yours."
I chalk my cue, hands steadier than I expected. The green felt stretches before me, familiar. Comforting, almost. How many hours have I logged at the pool hall on slow shifts? Hundreds, probably. I could give this kid a run for his money if I wanted.
I don't want to.
The game flows easily. I sink a few stripes, miss a couple on purpose. Make it look accidental. Dylan's decent—better than his buddy, anyway. He works the table with casual precision, calling his shots, grinning wider with each ball that drops.
"You're pretty good," he says, circling to where I stand.
"You too."
"Wanna make it interesting?"
I pause mid-chalk. "What'd you have in mind?"
"If you win, I'll take you out. Dinner, whatever." He leans against the table, eyes glinting. "If I win, you owe me a kiss. After the game."
My stomach drops.
The boys around us hoot and holler, egging us on. Someone wolf-whistles. I force myself to laugh, to play along, even as everything in me screams to run.
"Deal."
The rest of the game blurs. I miss shots I could sink in my sleep. I let him win by two balls. When the eight drops into the corner pocket, the basement erupts—cheering, hollering, slapping Dylan on the back.
He grins at me, victorious.
I want to crawl under a rock and die.
But I know I gotta do this. For Claudia.
Dylan doesn’t waste any time. He quickly guides me toward the back of the basement, past the water heater and stacked paint cans. A bedroom door stands ajar, revealing rumpled sheets and band posters peeling off the walls.
"Come on." He tilts his head toward the room.
"I barely know you." I force a laugh, planting my feet. "Let's just stay out here."
He shrugs, grinning. "Whatever you want, beautiful."
We're tucked behind the staircase now, hidden from the pool table crowd. Perfect. The phone's right there—the shape of the rectangle clearly evident in the back pocket of his jeans.
My tote dangles from my elbow. I tighten my grip on the strap.
Dylan steps closer. I scan his face quickly—clean-shaven, no weird spots around his mouth. Could be worse. Could be way worse. But the thought of kissing him makes my stomach turn violently. I hope I don't end up with mono, or worse.
For Claudia. For Colleen.
He backs me against the wall, hands landing on either side of my head. His breath smells like beer and cigarettes.
"Ready?" He leans in.
He kisses me first, slowly, softly, just a press of the lips. I close my eyes, forcing myself deeper than his tentative press. His tongue slides against mine, beer-bitter, and I swallow back nausea. He groans, pressing closer, and I know I need to move fast.
My hand trails down his chest, over his stomach, lower. He tenses when I cup his dick through his jeans, his breath hitching sharply.
"You're so hot," I whisper against his mouth. "I can't wait..."
Distraction. It’s all about distraction. The more turned on and distracted he is, the better my chances of pulling this off.
My other hand slips to his back pocket. Fingertips graze the phone's hard edge. I ease it upward, inch by careful inch, while squeezing his erection firmly, keeping him distracted.
The phone slides free.
I don't let go of him as I drop the phone straight into my tote in one fluid motion, heart exploding in my chest.
Dylan's getting rougher now, hands grabbing at my hips, mouth hot and insistent. I shove him back, breathless.
"Wait—I need to freshen up." I flash what I hope passes for a coy smile. "Meet me in the bedroom?"
His grin stretches wide. "So you've changed your mind?" he teases. "You know me well enough, now?"
I smile. "I guess so."
"You're just hurting for it, aren't you?" he whispers in my ear, and I really want to punch him. "What's your name anyway?”
Geez, he really thinks I'm about to sleep with him, and we don't even know each other's names yet. What kind of slut does he think I am? Is this how young kids are these days? I'm truly appalled. "Sophia."
He smiles and disappears through the door without looking back.
I force myself to walk normally through the basement, past the pool table, up the stairs. Every muscle screams run.
The second I hit the main floor, I bolt.
I'm about three away, engine roaring, yellow Mini Cooper weaving through darkened streets.
Text Julian. You promised.
Can't. Not yet. Not until I'm safe.
Every car behind me feels like a threat. Every flash of headlights sends my pulse spiking higher. What if Dylan realizes? What if he comes after me?
I take a corner too fast, tires squealing.
Julian's brownstone apartment building finally appears like salvation. I screech into a spot out front, kill the engine, grab my tote. The phone—Dylan's phone.
My fist hammers on his door.
My heart is beating a mile a minute. I feel as though I just ran a marathon—adrenaline buzzes through me. He opens the door shirtless, hair mussed, concern flooding those dark eyes the second he sees my face.
"Liza—"
I crash into him, burying my face against his bare chest. His arms wrap tight, anchoring me, and I finally exhale.
"What happened?" His voice rumbles beneath my cheek.
"I did it." The words tumble out between gasps. "I got the phone. Dylan's phone." I take great comfort in the warmth of his strong arms, burrowing my whole being into him.
"Are you okay?"
"I had to—God, Julian, I had to kiss him and touch him and—"
He pulls back, holding me at arm's length. His expression shifts through shock, disbelief, then something darker. Possessiveness. "What do you mean?"
"I had to kiss him."
"You kissed him!"
"I had to! For Colleen, for Claudia—"
His mouth twitches. "And what do you mean… You had to touch him?"
Heat floods my cheeks. "It was the only way to distract—"
"A younger man, too." His hands slide to my waist, gripping me firmly. "You've been a very bad girl, Liza."
The teasing lilt catches me off guard. My breath hitches.
"Julian—"
He pulls me flush against him, mouth hovering over mine. "Kissing boys at parties. Getting handsy. What am I going to do with you?"
I smile, shaky, relieved, turned on. "I don't know. Punish me?"
He laughs. “You’d love that, wouldn’t you?”
I grin up at him playfully, teasing. “I need to brush my teeth… now!”
I race to his washroom, where I already keep a toothbrush, and brush all remains of Dylan from my mouth.
As soon as I’m done, Julian finds me and pulls me in.
“Wow, someone’s—”
His kiss swallows my words—hungry, claiming, nothing like Dylan's beer-soaked fumbling. This is fire. This is mine.
Clothes scatter across his apartment in a trail of discarded cotton and denim. My shirt is somewhere near the piano. His jeans were kicked off by the bathroom. We don't make it gracefully to the bedroom—more stumble than stride, mouths fused, hands desperate.
The unmade bed catches us. Duvet tangled, pillows askew.
He spins me around, presses my chest to the mattress, hands firm on my hips.
"Stay."
I obey, heart hammering, already slick with want.
“Turn around,” he orders playfully, his voice lower than usual.
I oblige immediately and kneel on all fours for him.
He grabs my hips and pulls me hard against him. “You’ve been a very bad girl, and you need to be taught a lesson, my little Liza.”
I giggle into the pillow.
When he finally enters me from behind, the angle steals my breath. Possessive. Dominant. A side of him I've never seen but crave more of already.
The worst is over. That's what I keep telling myself as I drive north to Portland, Dylan's phone wrapped in a McDonald's napkin like contraband.
Just need to hand it off. Get rid of the evidence. Let someone smarter handle the rest.
Raine texts me the address—a hipster café with exposed brick and too many succulents. I spot him immediately at a corner table, hunched over his laptop, fingers flying across the keyboard. He barely glances up when I slide into the chair across from him.
"You're a lifesaver." I pull the phone from my tote, still wrapped. "Seriously, Raine. Thank you."
He plucks it free, unwraps it like a Christmas present. "Are you kidding? This is the most exciting thing I've done all month. Anything to catch a scumbag, you know?" He turns the phone over, inspecting it. "Especially sex crimes. I've got my eye on the CIA, actually. Sex crimes division."
I bite back a smile. Of course he does.
He powers on the phone, squints at the screen. "Looks like an old phone. An 8." He snorts. "Guy's probably broke as fuck."
Heat creeps up my neck. I'm still rocking a hand-me-down iPhone 11 from Jenna. Broke as fuck might describe me, too.
"Can you still get into it?"
"Oh, yeah. I can work with it." He waves a dismissive hand, already pulling out a cable from his messenger bag. “I just can’t promise quick results. These things take time."
"How much time?"
He shrugs, plugging the phone into his laptop. "Depends. Could be a day. Could be a week. You can't rush genius, my friend."
I suppress an eye roll. There it is—the cocky streak I'd forgotten about. Raine was always like this. Brilliant, sure. But insufferable.
I'm suddenly very grateful I never slept with him back when we were both bartending at that dive in Northeast Portland. A friend had tried to set us up once, and I'd been tempted—he's not bad-looking, tall and lanky with bleached tips—but something always held me back.
Now I know what. The ego.
"Just… keep me posted, okay?"
"Yeah, yeah." He's absorbed in his laptop. "I'll text you when I've got something."
I stand, shouldering my tote. "Thanks again."
He doesn't look up. "Anytime, Liza. Anytime."
"Can I buy you a coffee?” I ask. "It's the least I can do."
He smiles. "Sure, and one of those ginger molasses cookies, please."
I smile. I guess I need to chat him up for a bit, catch up and all. I can't be all wham-bam-thank-you, Sir.
That would be rude.