Page 21 of Seven Lost Summers
I don’t meet his eyes. I don’t have to because I already know what I’ll see. He’ll have that same stupid expression stamped across his face too. He’s eye-fucking her, same as me. This girl we understand nothing about. No name. No backstory. A presence that grabs you by the throat and refuses to let go.
She hasn’t said a word and I already know we’re both fucked. The kind of fucked you don’t crawl back from.
Her fingers ease off the strings, dragging out the last note until the sound stretches thin, trembling in the air like the whole room’s being held hostage.
No one breathes.
No one fucking dares.
A single clap breaks the silence—one slow hit of palm to palm from somewhere off to the side. It barely lands before another follows. More join in.
Louder.
Faster.
The sound builds, rolling across the room, chasing away the stillness she left behind.
Chairs scrape, feet shift, bodies move toward her, as if pulled by something they don’t understand. I stay still, shoulders locked, watching them circle in—like she’s the flame and every one of them is too dumb to notice they’re already burning.
Then I fucking see him.
Jared Ross. That smug piece of shit with his too-white teeth and that lazy grin he flashes like a goddamn weapon. He’s the worst kind of predator—the kind who hides behind charm and a letterman jacket.
He doesn’t only screw girls over. He records every touch, every moan, every second they think belongs to them. Later he shares the footage with his boys, passes the clips around the locker room like some twisted highlight reel. He laughs about the whole thing, rates them, talks about those girls as though they’re nothing but warm bodies and open legs.
Nate’s already laid him out more than once for running his mouth about me, but the prick never learns. He still walks around like he’s untouchable.
My fists curl without thinking, heat crawling up my neck, jaw clenched so tight it aches. Every part of me is screaming to get between him and her. To show him exactly what happens when he thinks about dragging her name through the same filth he spreads like a virus.
I hate the way his eyes crawl over her, slow and greedy, already claiming her in that arrogant, twisted head of his. He steps closer, shoulders cocked, all that fake confidence rolling off him in waves. Entitled. Smirking. Acting as if the world owes him her attention, her space, her fucking soul.
His voice drops low, smooth and practiced, the kind of tone that’s gotten too many girls to fall for his lies. It’s a sound meant to coil around her, to trap, to pull.
She looks up, and I fucking catch it. That fake smile stretched too tight, the twitch in her shoulder, the way she shifts back in her seat enough to pull away from him without drawing attention.
But I know what that means. She senses the sick, crawling weight of him getting too close.
My whole body tenses as the blood roars through my ears. Fists curling, twitching, burning to move. I want to fucking hurt him. To destroy that smug face before he lays one filthy word on her.
But I don’t get the chance.
Quinn Thomas is already reacting.
She stands, shoulders squared, eyes locked, pure fucking fire in her veins. Quinn storms across the room like a damn wrecking ball, steps between them, and slams her hands into Jared’s chest so hard he stumbles back with a grunt, all that fake charm wiped right off his face.
“Get the fuck away from her, asshole.”
Her voice cuts clean, with no room for doubt, no fear in the way she throws her words. The sound slices through the noise, silencing the room. She spits each line like venom, every syllable loaded.
She doesn’t need anyone’s help. She’s handling this asshole just fine.
Quinn holds her chin high, shoulders squared, eyes locked on Jared as though daring him to come closer. There’s this eerie calm rolling off her, the kind that makes your skin crawl—the moment before a storm cracks the sky wide open.
Jared shifts, trying to play it cool, tossing out that loud, cocky laugh that sounds too sharp, too fake. He knows everyone’s eyes are on him.
“Damn, girl,” he says, dragging his gaze over Quinn, voice all swagger and poison. “Just ‘cause I won’t give you my dick doesn’t mean you gotta go full psycho. Don’t get all twisted when a guy won’t chase a tease.”
He grins like he’s landed a punch, soaking in the attention.
