Page 70 of Triple Play
He knows something happened. Can’t prove it. But he knows.
“I’m going to bed too,” I say, dumping the last of the bottles in the recycling. “Long night.”
“Yeah.” He takes a long drink of his beer. “I bet it was.”
I head upstairs, feeling his stare burn into my back. Pass Wyatt’s door where every light is blazing underneath, which means he’s having one of his nights. Pass Grant’s door. Stop at my own.
But I’m not going to my room. Not tonight.
I’m going to wait exactly long enough for Grant to go to sleep.
And then I’m going to Elise’s room to finish what we started.
Because she promised she’d come to me, but I know her well enough now to know that fear might talk her out of it. That she might convince herself this is too risky, too complicated, too much.
So I’ll go to her instead.
And this time, nothing’s going to interrupt us.
CHAPTER TWELVE
THE LIGHT GOES OUT
Elise
The house is finally quiet.
I’ve been lying in bed for an hour, staring at the ceiling and listening to the sounds of the party die down, followed by the guys moving around downstairs, cleaning. I hear Jordie’s voice as he herds people out, claiming he has a hookup waiting. I hear doors closing and footsteps on the stairs.
My body still thrums with leftover adrenaline and desire. I can still feel Jordie’s hands on me, still taste him, still sense the press of him against my hip when he asked if I was really going to leave him like that. God, he was huge.
“Come to my room later,” I told him. “After everyone’s gone.”
And now everyone’s gone. The house is quiet. I should get up, slip down the hall to his room, and finish what we started.
But something stops me.
A sound through the wall. In Wyatt’s room. The creak of his bed frame, as if he can’t settle.
I sit up, listening harder.
More movement. Something hits the floor. A muffled curse.
He’s having a bad night.
I should go to Jordie as I promised. Wyatt made it clear he’s fine, that he doesn’t need anyone, and who am I to push when he’s built those walls so carefully?
But I’m already out of bed, pulling on sweatpants over my sleep shorts, padding barefoot into the hallway.
Every light under his door is blazing.
I knock softly. “Wyatt?”
Silence. Then movement. The door cracks open, and he stands there, shirtless, sweatpants slung low, hair disheveled. His eyes are shadowed, haunted in a way that makes my chest ache.
“Did I wake you?” His voice is rough.
“No. Couldn’t sleep.” I gesture past him into his room. “Can I come in?”
