“NO.”
The young face peering at me from the doorway pouts. “Please?”
“Absolutely not.”
A remarkably dog-like whining noise escapes Ben as he stomps into my room like a disgruntled child. One thing I learned very quickly about the kid; ‘no’ is not in his vocabulary. “But it’s your birthday.”
“Exactly.” With a grunt, I tear my gaze from the book I’m attempting to read for class so I can glare at the youngest and most annoying of my roommates. “It’s my birthday. And I don’t wanna do anything.”
“But that’s boring.”
“Yeah, well.” If not filling my house with a fuck ton of messy, drunk students—half of whom I probably won’t even know, some of whom are still teenagers, and most of whom consider twenty-four to be ancient in their worlds—makes me boring, then so be it. I learned my lesson after Halloween; the house was a fucking disaster and inexplicably, I was delegated most of the clean-up. And as much as I was raised in an environment that uses birthdays as an excuse for elaborate family affairs, when you don’t have a myriad of friends and cousins and cousins of cousins of cousins to help clean up, it’s not worth it.
Ben, unsurprisingly, wholeheartedly disagrees. “But it’ll be fun.”
I huff a noise of disagreement that’s no deterrent to Ben. With a dramatic sigh, he flops on the foot of my bed. I resist the urge to boot him off as he stretches out sideways, propping his head up on his fist and sighing again. “The girls are gonna be so disappointed.”
Paper crinkles as I pause mid-page turn. “What?”
“Cass already invited them.” Fuck me, the kid might be some kind of baseball prodigy but he’s godawful at acting; his attempt at nonchalance is almost laughable. “They sounded so excited. Oh well.”
Slowly, and regretting it before I even do it, I lower my book and offer Ben my full attention, knowing precisely what he’s fishing for yet still asking, “What girls?”
“Oh, you know. Kate, Luna,” he smirks, “Amelia.”
Another thing he’s shit at; subtlety.
“Whatever you’re thinking,” I drawl slowly, my foot itching with the urge to kick. “Stop it.”
“I’m just saying.” His innocent blink is anything but. “Now they have no reason to come here.”
Manipulation. I’m being manipulated by a fucking seventeen-year-old.
And the worst part; it’s fucking working. The mention of Amelia’s name has my ears pricking up like a fucking dog and it’s fucking pathetic. An errant thought floats through my head, convincing me maybe a party wouldn’t be too bad if Amelia was there. Sure, we’d see each other anyway at the gym. But maybe a house full of relative strangers would be better than the fucking soft porn our workouts have quickly turned into. And maybe, finally, an opportunity to get laid would arise, as much as that thought makes an inexplicable, uncomfortable knot settle in my gut.
“If you wanna throw a party,” I word carefully, casually, my eyes firmly focused on the book I long since stopped reading. “Throw a party, I don’t give a shit. Don’t do it on my account.”
If I paid attention for a second longer, I would’ve caught the slightly rabid, wholly chaotic, catastrophically mischievous expression contorting Ben’s face the moment those words left my mouth.
Alas, hindsight.
I’m going to kill him.
Ben Smith is about to get murdered. As a birthday present, I’m going to make Cass and Jackson help me hide his body. Although, I might off them because I’m almost positive they were in on this bullshit.
Fucking hell, where did they get all this shit?
Our house is a little boy’s birthday dream. I can’t take a step without kicking a balloon or copping a streamer to the face or, fucking hell, grimacing at one of the many, many, many blown-up photos of me at various ages littering the walls—add matricide to my to-do list because there’s only one person my asshole friends could’ve gotten my fucking baby pictures from. Someone’s already drawn a dick on the forehead of at least four of them and it’s only been an hour since we opened the doors. And the pièce de résistance; a banner strung up on the longest wall with Happy 40th Birthday Nicolas scrawled on the blue plastic fabric.
Fucking assholes.
I’m sulking in the kitchen, contemplating how I’m going to exact revenge on my so-called friends when fingers graze my forearm. “You know,” a sweet voice coos as the scent of coconut overwhelms me, a scent that’s been plaguing me for weeks. “You’re gonna have to give me your skincare routine. You don’t look a day over thirty-five.”
I want her so bad.
That’s the only thought in my head when I glance down at Amelia and it was my only thought when I watched her strut in about half an hour ago. I barely noticed Luna by her side, towering over her shorter friend since one had donned heels and the other forewent them in place of, fuck me, scuffed black Dr. Martens. I was too busy ogling her, greedily soaking up every inch.
Fuck, I thought. I need to burn that dress.
The Halloween one too. They’re too much for me. Too short, too tight, too demanding of my attention. Before I could stop myself, I found myself wondering if the fabric clinging to her was as soft as her skin. I wondered if the angelic white would look as good crumpled on my bedroom floor as the devilish red did. I wondered how nicely I’d have to ask for her to let me be the one to take it off this time.
I’d downed my drink—blessedly extra strong since Ben made it—to soothe the groan caught in my throat and turned my back on her. For the longest thirty minutes of my life, I tried to ignore her presence. I tried to pay attention to the array of other girls here but my brain worked against me.
That girl’s pretty, I would think. Amelia is so fucking beautiful it makes your chest hurt, it would remind me.
Nice smile, I notice. But it doesn’t compare to hers.
Could take someone upstairs and no one would notice—but you don’t fucking want to.
If she was anyone else, the ignoring thing would work. If only the thought of tearing my gaze away from her didn’t sound as painful, as difficult, as prying out my eyeballs.
The distance didn’t do her justice.
She’s…. light. She’s literal sunshine. And it makes a burst of anger shoot through me because I know that for so long, she was with someone who did nothing but dim her.
Amelia gazes up at me, her brows drawn together slightly, and I clear my throat when I realize I’ve been staring too long without saying anything. Forcing my lips into a smirk, I knock my shoulder against her playfully. “Couldn’t stay away from me for a day, could you, querida?”
Amelia rolls her eyes like she always does when I flirt with her, always automatically assuming I’m messing with her. Which I am.
Sometimes.
When she gestures towards the living room, I follow her gaze to where Luna and Jackson are grinding on the makeshift dance floor, matching looks of euphoria lighting up their faces. Fuck, it blows my mind that they’ve yet to put a label on what is so obviously a relationship. I’ve got to give Luna props for making him work for it.
“Kate’s with her girlfriend so I’m on wingwoman duties,” Amelia explains as she turns to the kitchen island laden with alcohol, every bottle and can and glass courtesy of Jackson as usual. The quietest of my roommates doesn’t talk about his family often—with the exception of his beloved sisters—but I know his grandparents are filthy rich and willing to share. I also know the only time Jackson ever extravagantly blows that money is when it’s for other people.
Note to self; add Jackson to hit-list. He probably paid for all this merda.
“So you didn’t come to wish me a happy birthday?” Propping my hip against the counter, I watch as she reaches for the nearest bottle of rum with one hand, the other grabbing a couple of the red cups scattered around. She tips a healthy amount into each, topping them both up with cola. “I’m hurt.”
The laugh I own washes over me like a warm, refreshing wave. Internally, I drop my head back, eyes drifting closed as I sigh contentedly. Externally, I calmly, cooly, collectedly take the full cup she offers me. Tipping her own forward, she clinks them together in a cheers. “Feliz aniversarió, Nicolas,” she murmurs, her smile hesitant. “Did I say that right?”
Wrong. So, so wrong. Not her pronunciation but the thoughts popping into my head at the sound of her crooning my mother tongue.
I hum a response because I don’t trust myself to speak, and she seems to accept that with a pleased hum of her own. Sipping on her drink, she copies my stance, leaning sideways against the counter and peering up at me. “I’m guessing you’re not actually forty.”
“I’m twenty-four.” When her brows raise in question, I continue. “I took a couple of years off after high school.” Considering my prospective college was the one my dead dad used to work at, the appeal wasn’t exactly there. Plus, I had more important things to do, people to take care of. Without hesitation, I shoved the idea of furthering my studies to the back of my mind and it didn’t arise again until Cass was researching Sun Valley and the well-reviewed English department caught my eye.
Another one of those damned laughs make me grit my teeth like a man in pain. “I was wondering why Ben kept calling you old man.”
My eye twitches at the mention of the little shit. “I’m barely six years older than him,” less than four years older than her, “and he acts like it’s sixty.”
Amelia laughs again and I contemplate asking her, begging her, to please, please stop before I lose my fucking mind. I don’t know what’s wrong with me tonight, why I’m particularly affected by her tonight. She always has some kind of a hold on me but tonight, it’s like I have no control over myself. It’s like I’ve willingly handed it over to her and that’s not normal for me. It’s not what I’m used to and I’m not sure I like it. Whatever it is threatening to drive me mad, it ups its efforts when Amelia suddenly turns towards the living room, her back against the counter as she scans the crowd searchingly. “Hey, have you seen Cass?”
I hate myself, I really fucking do, when, against my will, a little green monster thrashes in my gut. “He went upstairs a while ago.” I keep my gaze on her, gauging her reaction. “With a friend.” Amelia’s cute, freckled nose scrunches up in a grimace, and I’m so distracted by the fact I called her fucking nose cute, I don’t hear the question she asks me. “Sorry, what?”
“I asked why you’re looking at me like I should care.” Amelia doesn’t wait for me to respond before groaning like she already knows what I’m going to say. “Why is it so hard to believe nothing ever happened between us?”
Because Cass might be a big dumbass but he’s not that foolish. Three weeks with the girl and I’m addicted. Hell, a few months of knowing her only as the hot redheaded waitress and I was hooked. Ten years with her everywhere all the time? I’d be a goner.
I don’t voice any of that. I only shrug and Amelia huffs her discontent. “He’s like my brother, you creeps. And even if he wasn’t, he’s not my type, okay? Let it die.”
“What is your type?”
Me. Por favor Deus, be me.
A pink tongue darts out and drags over a pinker bottom lip as she crooks her head thoughtfully, frowning. “I don’t think I know anymore.”
Lemme show you, I coo silently. I’ll make it so much fun.
I’m losing it. I genuinely think I’m losing it, driven mad by coconut and rum, and I don’t know if it’s out of habit or because I’m panicking but all of a sudden, I’m slipping into my default setting and manwhore Nick comes out to play for the first time in a while. “Did I mention you look really fucking hot tonight?”
Immediately, I know I fucked up.
Amelia cringes. She actually visibly cringes, something I can’t say has ever happened to me before. Nor has a girl ever sneered at me the way she does, face dark with shock and umbrage and a gut wrenching amount of disappointment. “Don’t do that.”
“Do what?”
“Hit on me like I’m one of your hook-ups.” She won’t even look at me. “I have no interest in joining your little fan club.”
“I’m not-” I’m grappling for an excuse I don’t have when the worst possible thing that could happen, happens.
Before the woman suddenly clinging to my side even speaks, I know who it is. And it’s perfect, Jan-Jean-whatever the fuck her name is’ timing. She must have a sixth sense for shit-stirring because there is no better moment she could’ve chosen to cement her palm against my chest, balance on her tip-toes, and warble in my ear. “Hi, birthday boy.”
Her grip has improved since last time; my attempts to shake her off are futile. “Not now, Janice.”
She ignores me. “Can I steal you for a dance?”
Fuck no, I open my mouth to say but someone beats me to it. “Go ahead.” Amelia laughs but it’s not the sound I was fawning over minutes ago. It’s… not quite bitter but something close.
“Amelia-” My tone is a step away from begging but it’s too late; I blink and she’s gone, swallowed up by the crowd and porra. How did everything go to shit so quickly? I try to go after her, cursing again when I’m pulled back by someone I honestly forgot was even there. “Get off me,” I snap, wrenching my arm away with more force than I’d prefer to use. If I wasn’t so pissed, I’d laugh at how confused J-whatever looks. “I’m not fucking interested.” The latter is yelled over my shoulder as I exit the kitchen and power through the rabble, laser-focused on the crown of red curls I catch disappearing outside.
She’s halfway down the drive when I catch up with her, calling her name a second before I grab her arm and…
She flinches.
Amelia spins around, fear flashing in eyes that have never looked at me the way they’re looking at me right now, and she flinches. A gut reaction that fades the moment she realizes it’s me but fuck, does it cut me deep. I practically recoil as I snatch my hand back, the most intense sense of nausea I’ve ever felt washing over me. And the look on her face, honesto a Deus, makes me want to cry.
“Sorry.” I hate the hollowness in her voice as much as I hate the fact she’s apologizing for something that’s never going to be her fault. “I didn’t know it was you.”
Sucking in a breath, I tentatively—so fucking tentatively—close the distance between us in tiny, careful steps. Just as slowly, my hand rises, hovering for an agonizing moment before my palm glides over her cheek, and there goes the urge to cry again when she leans into me the tiniest bit, almost subconsciously. “I would never hurt you.”
I’m waiting for her reply, desperate for the assurance that she knows, when suddenly, searing pain erupts across my temple, I’m ripped away from her, and all hell breaks loose.
