Page 12 of Shut Up and Score
He’s kissing him back. Hungry. Hard. I'm pretty sure they might just fuck right there against the wall. Andthat’swhat makes my stomach drop.
Micah. My ex-best friend. The boy who used to beeverything to me. Flushed and beautiful andhishands in someone else’s jacket.
I don’t think. I just move. Toward him.
What exactly am I going to do? I don’t have time to find out because Caleb grabs my arm.
“Colton! Dude, what are you doing? That’s agay bar.We’re not gonna pick up chicks in there.”
I yank my arm free. Chicks? Right. I’m not gay. I’m straight. With a girlfriend. Aperfectgirlfriend that I should be thinking about instead of the guy I can’t get out of my fucking head.
“Right,” I say, letting Caleb drag me toward the club next door.
My feet move, but my head’s still back there—outside Riot—where Micah was being kissed and devoured for anyone to see. He wanted it. I should be glad he wasn’t still tangled up in the mess I made. That he's been able to live his life.
We step into another club; louder, hotter, full of strobe lights and girls in high heels with glossy lips and manufactured laughter. It’s everything I’m supposed to want.
Instead, I'm empty.
I grab a drink from the bar without even knowing what it is, down half of it in one pull, and let the burn tear through my throat as if it might scorch the memory ofhimaway.
It doesn’t.
I see Micah everywhere.
In the curve of someone’s smile. The tilt of a guy’s jaw across the room. The way two male dancers grind together without shame.
And it makes me want to crawl out of my skin.
Caleb’s flirting with a girl in a red dress. Ryan’salready dancing with someone, laughing, acting as if he's never worried about a single fucking thing in his life.
And I’m here. Alone. Miserable.
Buzzing with heat I can’t name. Wanting what I can’t have. Watching the door like maybe Micah will walk in by mistake. Or I might walk out and do something reckless.
Again.
I pull out my phone. Check the app.
Still nothing.
The match. The message.
You said you want to burn. Mind if I bring the match?
I can’t tell if he’s read it or not. I stare at the screen until my vision blurs, then shove it back in my pocket.
God, I wish I was drunker.
The Next Morning
The first thing I feel is my skull trying to split in half.
The second is the dried-out cotton tongue in my mouth, like I spent the night licking sandpaper and cheap tequila.
The third? Panic. Because the sun’s already too high, bright behind my eyelids, and my phone is vibratingaggressivelyfrom somewhere under my pillow.
I crack one eye open.
