Page 39 of The Hearts We Fumble
“Try me.” His voice is pure steel, and I know he means it. “Now tell me where you are, or I’m about to walk back inside The End Zone and round up the guys to come with me.”
I groan, pressing my fingers to my temples. “You’re so ridiculous, you know that? Why the hell do you even care what I do?”
There’s a beat of silence, heavy and telling. When he speaks again, it’s almost guttural.
“You’re drunk, aren’t you?” A hard exhale follows. “I can tell you are.”
I don’t answer. I don’t have to.
“I’m on my way,” he mutters, and I can hear movement in the background—keys jangling and a door slamming. “I’ll be there in twenty minutes, thirty tops. You better have your sweet ass sitting on that fuckin’ bench, or I swear to God, Wyatt, I will walk in there and carry you out myself.”
His next words land like a warning. A threat laced with something darker, something I’m not ready to name.
“Don’t tempt me, Firecracker. Because I don’t think you’ll like what you see if you do.”
The call disconnects, and I pull the phone from my ear, staring at the screen in disbelief.
Call Ended.
My mouth parts, my breath coming a little too fast. A shiver runs down my spine, but it’s not from the cool night air. Heat pools low in my belly, twisting in ways I don’t want to acknowledge.
Zane being possessive should not turn me on as much as it does. But damn.
I’ve never seen this side of him before—the sharp edge in his voice, the unyielding authority, and the way he spoke about me like I was his problem to deal with.
Colter has always been overprotective. He’d threaten to show up if he thought I was in trouble, but he sure as hell wouldn’t talk about me and my “sweet ass” in the way Zane just had.
The image flashes through my mind—Zane storming into the house, eyes dark with warning, gripping my wrist and hauling me out like he owns me. My stomach flips, and I swear I can still hear the raw command in his voice.
I hate myself a little for how much I want to call his bluff.
The backyard is nearly empty now, save for the string lights glowing along the sidewalk, casting long shadows against the grass. Music still thuds from inside, but the temptation to go back in fades. The alcohol is settling deep, making everything hazy, but one thought cuts through it all. I want to go home.
With a sigh, I pull out my phone and text Claudia.
Me: Something came up. Zane’s giving me a ride home.
She won’t question it. She doesn’t know everything, but she knows enough—that whenever Zane is around, it’s never just simple.
I hate that he still has this hold over me.
Before I even slip my phone back into my pocket, it vibrates again. I expect a message from Claudia, but it’s not.
Zane: Two minutes. Be outside.
A mix of irritation and anticipation tightens in my chest.
I push to my feet, brushing the dirt from my jeans before following the glow of the sidewalk, weaving my way through the yard. As I reach the front, headlights sweep across the driveway. The deep rumble of an engine pierces the night, drawing attention from the scattered groups outside.
Heads turn.
And then Zane climbs out.
The streetlight catches the sharp angles of his face and the way his jaw ticks as his gaze locks on me.
Even across the yard, I feel it—the weight of him and the barely restrained frustration.
And something else.
