When You Come Back to Me (Lost Boys #2) - Emma Scott Page 0,20

and strode through the room, drawing attention. Making a scene.

Shit.

I sucked in deep breaths and tapped the keg for another cup as Chance, Donte, and some guys followed me into the kitchen.

“What was all that about?” Donte asked.

“Did the new guy try something on you?” Chance asked, chugging laughter.

“Yeah, get a little action you weren’t ready for?” another guy, Mikey Grimaldi, asked with even more glee. As if consent were a big joke.

I could’ve made up any story I wanted. Whether it was true or not, they’d kick the shit out of Holden for no other reason than I told them to.

“Nah, it’s nothing,” I said, taking a long sip of beer. “He shoots off at the mouth and I’m not in the mood for it. It’s all good.”

The guys absorbed this, and because I was their king, they accepted it without question. But how far would that acceptance stretch?

Who else knows you’re gay?

The question was a flare sparking in a pitch-black night or a bomb dropped into a dark pit, shaking the foundation and threatening the entire edifice.

I watched the guys—my supposed friends—laugh and joke as if nothing had changed.

Because it hasn’t, I told myself fiercely. Not one damn thing.

And yet the image of green eyes watching me—seeing me—over the flicker of flame wouldn’t snuff out, no matter how much beer I tried to drown it in.

It’d taken less than seven minutes, but everything had changed.

Chapter Four

“That…” I said to the empty closet, “was a dick move.”

I flipped my Zippo open and shut, over and over, a strange energy vibrating through me. It intensified when I recalled River’s face and how it froze in abject fear when I’d asked my question. Fear that had quickly softened to confusion and something else. Something that looked suspiciously like relief.

I hadn’t expected that. I was sure I was fucking with a straight boy.

But what if I wasn’t?

My little black heart stuttered at the idea that I might’ve touched a nerve River didn’t even know he had. Putting him on the spot like that was…

“Wrong,” I muttered. “It was wrong and now I have to apologize. Ugh, I hate that.”

On the plus side, apologizing meant I had an excuse to talk to River again.

Beg forgiveness.

On my knees…

“Down, boy,” I said, wagging a finger at my crotch. Shit, I was drunk.

I started to pull myself off the floor when Evelyn entered the closet on a cloud of feminine hormones and girly perfume, killing my hard-on immediately. I sank back down, my head lolling against the wall.

“Shit, I forgot we’re playing Seven Minutes in Heaven: Herpes Edition.”

She laughed sharply. “What does that mean?”

“It means a chain of people kissing each other is a fabulous method of cold sore conveyance.”

“And yet, here you are.” Evelyn sat in the center of the closet in front of me. “Wait. Does that mean you kissed River Whitmore?”

I wish.

I considered the rumors Evelyn would start about River if she grew suspicious. I’d made him feel shitty enough.

“I never kiss and tell. But no. We did not kiss. In fact, I’m quite certain he hates my guts.”

“Good,” she purred. “I don’t like sharing.”

Evelyn prowled toward me, sliding her hands under my calves and then up over my knees. I’d drunk too much. Or maybe not enough. River’s agonized expression came back along with the hope that it sparked in me. A longing that I knew was impossible and doomed, because unless it was purely sexual, I wasn’t capable of being good for anyone. Including myself.

Evelyn’s hands were on my thighs now. In the dimness, her hair cascaded sexily around her cleavage. She reminded me of Camila Cabello and the song she did with Shawn Mendes.

“I love it when you call me señorita,” I sang softly. “Wish I could pretend I don’t need ya…”

“What are you saying?” Evelyn asked with a small laugh. “Never mind. Let’s not talk anymore.”

I snorted indelicately. “Anymore? Because we’ve been in a riveting tête-à-tête up until now.”

“Shh. This is what we’re here for.”

Her lips were nearly on mine, but a manic wildness was infiltrating me, fueled by old pain that was waking with a vengeance and greased by guilt for what I’d done to River.

My thoughts took off to the races—whispers from Alaska that said I was worthless, unlovable, that I ruined everything I touched…because it was true. I recalled over and over River’s expression and how I might’ve struck a chord—the right chord—but in the worst possible way. He hated me. I hated me for hurting