Page 71 of Shut Up and Score

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Keep pretending this city’s lights are bright enough to burn Colton out of my head.

But even in this crowd, even in this haze, I still feel the phantom of our kiss.

And I hate that part of me wants him to do it again.

SEVENTEEN

COLTON

The momentI knew the truth? The real, undeniable truth…about who was on the other side of my screen on Prism.

Micah was storming out of the showers—hair wet, skin flushed, lips still swollen from the kiss I gave him.

But he wasn’t hearing anything I was attempting to say.

I followed him, still reeling. Still half-hard and stunned and soaked to the bone. I don’t even remember grabbing a towel. All I remember is the way he moved—furious, stark, edged with something dark.

He yanked open his locker, grabbed a clean towel, and turned away from me.

He shoved his wet practice padding off his legs, letting it drop with a wet plop to the floor at his feet. The taste of him was still on my tongue as he pretended the world didn’t just end for him, that our kiss didn’t mean a damn thing..

And that’s when I saw it.

As he stood up—completely bare, angry, radiant, real—I saw the ink curling just over his hipbone.

The tattoo. The one I'd studied in the picture he sent. The one I'd told him I'd trace with my mouth. My breath catches in my throat.

“Micah—” I say. I'm lightheaded. Confused.

He shifts, shoving his legs into his sweats with angry, jerking movements. And that's when I saw more proof—his piercing, the one that threads straight through his tip.

The piercing.

The fucking piercing I've looked at way more than I care to admit.

Silver. Subtle. Unmistakable. The one I’d teased him about. The one he’d sent me a photo of after we’d sexted for hours, cocky and self-conscious all at once.

The one that made my mouth water. And now it was right there.

In front of me.

I'm frozen as he slings his bag over his shoulder and leaves, his bare feet slapping against the tile.

Micah is SmokeScreen77.

Micah is him.

The guy behind the screen. The one I stayed up talking to. The one I trusted with shit I’d never told anyone.

The same guy I wanted to meet.

His bag’s gone. His voice is gone.

But I’m still staring at the locker in shock.

My phone buzzes in my bag. I already know who it is. I don’t have to look.

I don’t deserve to.

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