Page 28 of Shut Up and Score
Jasmine hops down and dusts glitter off her hands. “I love when you’re here,” she says, slipping her arm around my waist like we’re in some perfect college romance montage. “It feels like… I don’t know. Like we’re really doing this again and we’ve got our spark back.”
Her words hit me right in the ribs.Our spark.
I force a nod, leaning down to brush a kiss against her temple. “Yeah. Feels good.”
It doesn’t. Not really. Because every time her perfume hits me, my brain flickers somewhere else. To a football field two years ago. To a smirk I can’t forget. To the way I had to bite my lip earlier just to keep from saying another man’s name.
The party starts, and the house fills with music, laughter, and the smell of spiked punch. Jasmine’s flushed and gorgeous, mask glittering under the string lights as she pullsme into the throng of people. She loops her arms around my neck, body pressed to mine and, for a second, I try—God, I really try—to be here. To be hers.
But my chest feels tight. My hands on her hips feel like someone else’s. And when she tilts her face up to kiss me, my stomach knots because I know exactly whose mouth I wish I was tasting.
“Come on,” she giggles against my lips. “Dance with me.”
We dance and party for what feels like hours.
She’s drunk now, tipsy and handsy, and her friends whistle when she tugs me up the stairs. I follow, heart sinking. I help her into her room, take off her heels, and tuck her beneath the soft pink blanket she bought over summer break.
“Stay,” she murmurs, eyes heavy, fingers catching my wrist. “You never stay anymore.”
The words cut deep, guilt slicing me open.
I kiss her forehead, my voice rough. “Sleep, Jas. I’ll check on you in the morning.”
Her lashes flutter, and she pouts up at me, lips glossy in the soft glow of her bedside lamp. “Or…” Her voice is a slurred whisper. “You could get in. With me.”
My stomach knots. “Jas?—”
She scoots toward the wall, patting the empty space beside her. “C’mon, Colton. You’re so warm. And I miss you. You used to…” she trails off into a sleepy giggle, reaching for my shirt to tug me closer. “You used to always stay. Always touch me.”
The guilt hits like a punch to the chest. She’s right. I used to. And now, even when I do, my brain is a thousand miles away.
“Not tonight,” I murmur, crouching by the bed to easeher hand off my shirt. “You’re drunk, Jas. You’ll thank me in the morning.”
She makes a frustrated sound and flops onto her back, hair fanning across the pillow. “I want you now.”
God, she’s beautiful. Sweet. Trusting. And I am the worst kind of liar.
I stand quickly, before my resolve breaks, before I do something even crueler than I already have. “Sleep. Please.”
Her lower lip wobbles in a half-pout, half-sleepy smile. “You’re no fun anymore.”
The words shouldn’t hurt. They do anyway.
I force a soft chuckle and step toward the door. “I’ll check on you later.”
By the time I close it behind me, my chest feels as if it’s caving in. My hands are shaking. My legs move automatically down the hall, past the noise of the party, until I’m out the front door and into the cold night.
The air bites at my skin, but it’s still not enough to quiet the echo of her voice.
You never stay anymore.
I want you now.
I grip my phone, even before I’ve unlocked it. Because I already know what I’m going to do. I’m going to check the app. I’m going to look for Smoke. I’m going to do the exact thing that makes me the kind of guy she doesn’t deserve.
EIGHT
MICAH
