The music is bumping as I trek to Christian’s front door. Only instead of the usual house bullshit, I hear “Control” by Puddle of Mudd pumping through the speakers.
It’s a good song. One of my favorites by them.
The tiny hairs on my neck raise. Thanks to Dylan forcing me to listen to it nonstop one summer.
I grip the handle harder than necessary as I walk inside.
A few girls sweep their eyes over me as I pass them, but I’m not interested in hooking up tonight. I’m just here to check in and make sure my brother and friend don’t get too wasted and do something stupid.
I spot them in the living room hovering near the liquor table. No surprise there.
I’m heading over when my gaze snags on some chick dancing on a coffee table. I can’t see her face because her back is to me, but it doesn’t matter. With a body like that, she could look like a bulldog, and half the guys here would still fuck her.
I stifle a laugh when I spot Oakley’s pothead friends from Royal Manor High. Until tonight, I’ve never seen them pay attention to anything other than their bongs. However, it’s clear the hottie on the table has them both transfixed.
And they aren’t the only ones. Dwight Davis and Courtland Bennet, two of the best players on the offensive line for the Knights are practically salivating. Dwight is a good guy, but according to my brother, Courtland is a pretentious bastard.
My groin stirs as I focus on the girl again. Long legs, curvy little ass, and the kind of hair I’d like to run my fingers through and tug while getting my dick sucked.
Yeah, I’m starting to understand the gravitational pull.
I’m not alone either, because a few more guys from the football team surround the coffee table.
“You’re so hot,” one of them calls out. “How much for a private lap dance?”
The girl doesn’t pay him any attention. She’s so into the music, no one else matters. I bite my lip as she moves her body to the beat like a snake charmer. There’s something sexy as fuck about a girl who gives none.
“Hey,” Oakley shouts. “How much for you to shut the hell up?”
Cole squeezes his shoulder. “Relax. Griffin’s harmless.”
Hmm. Oakley doesn’t usually have such a short fuse. Not unless someone is dumb enough to mess with those he cares about.
Like some kind of personal fuck you from the universe, my brain puts the pieces together at the same time the girl turns around.
A mixture of anger, confusion, and something else I’m not ready to acknowledge twists my guts as I stare at Dylan.
Why the fuck is she dancing on a table… looking like that? The red Solo cup she brings to her glossy lips answers my question.
It’s her birthday…and the anniversary of her mother’s death.
Of course, she’s drinking. For the same reasons I did.
She wants to forget.
I grind my molars as I make a beeline for Oakley and Cole.
Oakley nudges my brother when he sees me approach. “Look who’s here.” He bumps my fist. “Hey, man. What’s good?”
Placing my soda on the table, I glare at him. “Any reason your cousin is stripping for half the school right now?”
He makes a face. “She’s dancing, not stripping.”
Cole smirks over his beer bottle. “Not yet, anyway.”
Oakley smacks his arm. “Shut up.” His stare drifts to Dylan who’s now shaking her ass—this time to some godawful hip-hop song—which is how I know she’s past the cutoff point. “It’s her birthday. She deserves to have some fun.” His eyes cut to mine. “Everyone needs a break from their bullshit from time to time.”
He’s not wrong, but it doesn’t mean he should stand by and be complacent while a bunch of guys ogle her like she’s a cold drink of water on a hot day.
Annoyance brews in my chest as Dylan slowly gyrates her hips and rakes her fingers through her blonde hair.
One of Oakley’s pot buddies holds up his bong and asks if she wants a hit. I want to scream at her not to be a dumbass because while they seem harmless, there’s no telling what they could have laced that shit with.
My fingers curl into fists as she leans over and inhales.
“You gonna put a stop to this?”
Oakley looks at me like I’m crazy. “A stop to what? Her taking a bong hit?”
No, the way Courtland Bennett’s leering at her like a dog who wants a nice juicy bone. My teeth clench when he says something to Dwight.
I can’t hear him, but I know what the phrase run a train looks like coming out of someone’s mouth.
Dwight appears hesitant before he laughs and shrugs.
Irritation makes me snap. “Seriously, Oakley?”
“Seriously, what?” He fixes his gaze on me. “Quit acting like I’m doing something wrong because you’re jealous.”
“He’s right,” Cole chimes in. “If you want to stop the dogs from peeing on your lawn, you need to put up a fence. Not a sign.”
Not only does that analogy not make any goddamn sense, it doesn’t apply.
“The both of you can fuck off. I’m not jealous.”
I’ve had enough of this shit. If I spend another minute here, the Knights will be down two players for the upcoming playoff game.
Digging my keys out of my pocket, I flip them the bird. “I’m heading out.”
