Page 112 of Crew Princess
Cross came up behind me, placing his arm around my shoulders. “You were quiet in there.”
“Yeah.”
“What’s going on?”
What was going on with me?
I didn’t have an answer for him. It was the same stuff I’d started talking about before, but I didn’t want to get into it here.
“I’ll tell you later,” I said.
“Okay.” He pressed a kiss to my forehead, and we got on the bus.
Turns out, I spoke too soon.
My sides hurt from laughing.
My feet hurt from dancing.
My ears were ringing from the music.
My head pounded. My dress was a mess. My makeup was nonexistent. My hair was a nest.
But prom had been everything.
I was shocked. All those years I’d avoided life, school, classmates, dances—maybe I shouldn’t have? I came out of the bathroom and headed for the parking lot—like I’d just texted Cross—as I considered that.
No. It had been fun now because I was ready.Now. Not then. I’d needed only my crew then, and now, I was opening up, trying to accept others, not be so guarded.
I was just passing the guy’s locker room when I heard the door open.
I didn’t think anything of it. I didn’t think anything of the empty hallway. I didn’t think anything of the low lights until I heard, “Bren.”
A chill shot up my spine. My gut clenched. This wasn’t good, whatever was coming, because I felt it happening. It was like a train departing the station. It was heading right for me, and I knew no matter what, I couldn’t get off the tracks in time. And. That. Train. Wasn’t. Going. To. Stop.
I turned and read it on his face.
“Alex?”
His face was haggard—bags under his eyes, and it seemed he hadn’t shaved in a week. He was dressed in a tux, but the coat was gone. His shirt was half unbuttoned, the tails pulled out. His pants were dirty, scraped at the bottoms, and in his hand, a full bottle of Jim Beam. He wasn’t even standing still. He staggered back into the door, hitting his head, and he didn’t say a word. He didn’t react.
He didn’t feel it.
But his eyes had a storm in them, and they wouldn’t leave mine.
I should’ve gone. Walked away.
But I took a step toward him. “What’s going on, Alex?”
He shook his head, raising the bottle and peering at it as if it had magically appeared in his hand. “I warned you.”
“Warned me? About what?”
“About Drake.” He shook his head, and once he started, he couldn’t stop. He started to fall, then slammed into the wall by the door. Now the door could swing shut behind him, and he stepped back, but the door wasn’t there. He backpedaled rapidly, slamming into the wall now.
A hard hit. And still no reaction.
He just raised the bottle again and pointed it at me. “I told you he wasn’t here for the reason he said he was here. Crew’s gone. They kicked Drake out. I’m out. It’s no longer a Ryerson crew.”
