Chapter 5
THERE IT GOES
NOLAN
I leave the rooftop without a word.
The city howls past me, but none of it touches the static whipping around inside my chest.
Rishi trails behind me, quiet.
At the curb, I throw up a hand for a cab. One screeches over. Rishi gets in after me, slamming the door, bracing for turbulence.
The vinyl seat sticks to the back of my neck. The cab smells faintly of sweat and weed. My molars ache from how tightly I’m grinding them.
She hit me where it hurts.
The worst part?
I liked it—right up until I didn’t.
Rorie Adams, with her kill-shot eyes and venom-tipped voice. She met me, jab for jab, glare for glare.
For a few minutes, she became the punching bag I needed. And I must’ve been hers, too. But then she landed the hit of the fucking century. The one that split me open. If I hadn’t walked away, I would’ve bled out right there. Right in front of her. In front of everyone.
I can’t have that. So, I left.
Rishi breaks the silence with a sigh. “You gonna talk about it?”
“Nope.”
“You sure? Cause your face looks like someone just told you football was canceled forever.”
I stare out the window. The streetlights stretch across the glass like scars. “You gave her the kill shot.”
“Shit, I’m sorry, man,” he says. “I wasn’t thinking. It was the first time you’ve looked alive all night and it just slipped out.”
I don’t respond. I’m still replaying her words. That stare. The moment she saw me—and all my hurt, and my pain, and she twisted the knife anyway.
Rishi was right. She’s a real killer.
“Look,” he says carefully. “She got under your skin.”
“I’m fine. She’s arrogant.”
“So are you.”
I roll my neck, trying to ease the tension there. “She was mad about Vanguard. I was her chosen target. It’s all good.”
Rishi chuckles. “Maybe. Or maybe you were the only one who could take the hit and dish it right back.”
I say nothing. Because yeah, she pissed me off. But she also challenged me. Lit a fuse I didn’t know was still wired. I haven’t felt that in a long time.
I didn’t just enjoy it.
I wanted it.
Every glare. Every bite of her words.
For a second, she made me forget Chloe. Made me forget everything except how badly I wanted to win that argument.
“That last jab though,” Rishi mutters. “Damn. You flinched.”
I let my head fall back against the seat. “She came for my pride.”
“She came for your ego,” Rishi corrects. “Your pride loved it. She hit you right in the balls, man.”
I shake my head, biting down on the anger bubbling up inside.
“You were flirting,” he says,
“I was not.”
He gives me a look. “She basically slapped you and kissed you in the same breath. And you said, yes, please, again.”
I roll my eyes.
“She got in deep, and fast,” he says. “You wanted it. And sorry, dude, but it was written all over your face. You wanted her. That’s why you didn’t speak for fucking ever. She made you nervous.”
I don’t respond.
I’m still thinking about the way her voice dipped when she delivered that final line. How her eyes didn’t blink. How the air between us shifted from sparring to something else entirely.
I want to believe it was just heat. Just chemistry. Just two rivals biting at each other’s throats.
But it wasn’t.
It was personal.
And I wasn’t prepared for that.
The cab pulls up to my building. The lights from the lobby glow. I reach for the handle.
“Want me to come up?” Rishi asks.
“No. I’m good.”
“Text me if you need to bury a body.”
“Yours or Jackson’s?” I smirk.
“Ha, ha. I said I’m sorry, get over it.”
“Night, man.”
The cab drives away, tires hissing over asphalt. I’m left standing in the kind of quiet that doesn’t soothe—it strangles.
The walk from the curb to my building is a crawl through cement. My shoes scuff against the concrete. The night air stings and the city is pretending it didn’t just watch my life fall apart.
I let myself into the lobby, each footstep echoing off polished tile. The elevator dings too cheerfully. My reflection in the brushed steel doors is of some tired, worn out shell of a human. I don’t recognize this barely stitched together version of me.
Inside my apartment, the stillness is worse. The loft is cold. Open. Sterile. A showroom staged to look like a life.
I toss my keys into the bowl by the door. Pour a drink. Bourbon. Neat. It scorches the back of my throat, but not in a good way.
The record player groans to life. Killswitch Engage. The guitar hits, followed by a guttural scream, the vocals punching to the chest, loud and violent.
I collapse onto the couch and close my eyes.
All I see is Chloe. Her tangled hair. Her bare back. Jackson’s face twisted in that smug grin.
Them, together.
My stomach flips. I grip the throw pillow and hug it tight, but it smells like her shampoo.
Now I want to burn everything she ever touched.
My phone buzzes. I check it. ESPN.
Of course it’s not her.
I scroll anyway. Not because I expect a message, but because some broken part of me wants one. Is that so wrong?
I toss my phone to the coffee table. It hits with a dull crack. The shattered screen reflects back at me. Then it buzzes again.
I snatch it up. Jackson?
Let’s be adults, Nolan. I respect your work. This was...unfortunate timing. That’s all.
Unfortunate timing?
My pulse thunders. Here is, minimizing it. Rewriting it.
He wants me to let it slide. To make it easy at Big Stream. Because if I don’t, his spot in Thatcher’s world gets shaky. And he knows it.
Jackson wants grace. But all I’ve got are bullets.
You don’t respect shit.
Take your unfortunate timing and shove it up your Nepo Baby ass.
Three dots blink. Pause. Blink again.
Then—
The audacity. The passive-aggressive corporate sociopathy of a fucking emoji. It’s the equivalence of a shrug.
I almost launch my phone across the room.
Again.
Instead, I squeeze it until my hand goes numb. This is war.
Also…FUCK YOU!
Then I turn my rage to Chloe. Because fuck her too.
Her number isn’t in my phone anymore. Doesn’t need to be. It’s seared into me just like everything else I wish I could forget.
My thumbs move on instinct. Fueled by bourbon and fury. The message is brutal. Blunt. No poetry. Just shrapnel.
I hover over send. My reflection in the screen looks warped.
What am I doing? This isn’t me. I’m not this guy. The one who rage texts the people who fucked him over. I’m the guy who walks away because the fight just isn’t worth it.
But then I see her again, bare skin, Jackson’s hands, that smirk.
Screw it.
I hit send.