Page 11 of Shut Up and Score
I exhale, rub my palms down my thighs, and force myself not to check again. Not to open the chat a second time and reread the words, as if I didn’t just send them thirty seconds ago.
God, what the hell am I doing?
The door bursts open behind me.
“Yo,” Caleb says, clapping the frame with one hand and holding a pizza box in the other. “No game tomorrow. We’re hitting downtown. You in?”
Behind him, Ryan’s already pulling on a clean hoodie from his room and grinning, ready for a wild night. I swipethe phone off my lap and slam it screen-down onto my desk like it’s contraband.
“Yeah,” I say automatically, throat dry. “Sure. Why not.”
Caleb turns around, leaving me in our bedroom, and drops the pizza on the common room table behind him. “Atta boy. You’ve been brooding lately. Thought maybe you were actually studying or something.”
I force a laugh. “Gross.”
I get up, tug on a fresh shirt, and try not to glance back at the phone.
I shove it in my back pocket and grab a slice of pizza. If I’m drinking, I need something other than regret in my stomach.
The guys are already hyping the night as if it’s some kind of epic event; Caleb talking about shots, Ryan planning which bar we hit first. I chew my way through the crust and pretend I’m part of the energy, nodding at all the right moments, smirking and pretending I give a shit.
But the truth is, I feel off.
Too aware of the weight of my phone in my pocket. Too wired. Too empty.
By the time we pile into the Uber, the city’s already buzzing. Neon lights smear across the windshield as we speed toward downtown, and music blares from every open patio and passing car. It should feel like an escape. It should feel fun.
It doesn’t.
Ryan slaps my chest as we hop out. “Let’s get Golden Boy laid tonight!”
I roll my eyes. “Original. And I have a girlfriend.”
“That’s never stopped me,” Caleb replies.
I snort. That’s true. He doesn’t have a faithful bone in his body. But I let them drag me into the noise anyway.
The first bar is loud, sticky with spilled drinks, packed with bodies swaying too close. I slam a shot with Caleb, sip something citrusy and overpriced, let the alcohol smooth the edges off my thoughts.
But it doesn’t numb them.
Because every time I shift, I feel the phone. Every time I check the lock screen—nothing.
No reply. Not even a read receipt. And I don’t know what’s worse—waiting or hoping.
So I down another shot. Let Ryan pull me onto the dance floor. Let some girl with glitter on her cheeks grab my hand and flirt, acting as if it might actually go somewhere. I smile. I nod. I pretend.
Because that’s what I’m good at, right?Pretending.
We’re on our fourth—or maybe fifth—club. Who the hell knows. I stopped counting five drinks and six shots ago.
I stagger out of the Uber, lucky to land on my feet, the sidewalk tilting slightly under me.
That’s when I see him.
Leather jacket. Leaning against the brick wall outside a club with a pulsing neon sign that reads Riot. A guy’s got him boxed in, one hand braced beside his head, mouth fused to Micah’s, clearly attempting to lick the memory of every other man off his tongue. And maybe his tonsils too.
And Micah?
