“No thank you. I’m your chauffeur, remember? Too bad you’re a shitty tipper.”
“Don’t bitch,” he says. “If we’re all drunk, you’ll clean up at darts.”
“I clean up at darts no matter what. Just admit it.”
And half an hour later, I do.
Nineteen
Rickie
A couple hours later, after I’ve lost twenty bucks at darts—to Daphne—she drives us home, as promised.
I’m in the back seat, pleasantly drunk, trying not to stare at the back of her kissable neck.
Beside me, Dylan reaches forward to put his hand at the juncture of Chastity’s shoulder and neck. He strokes her skin with his finger.
I spent the past few months giving him a lot of shit for how handsy they are all the time. But it’s sweet, and I’d happily eat my words if I could have what they have.
In Dylan’s shoes, I’d be the same way. I’d claim my girl, and let the whole world know that Daphne was mine. If she wouldn’t give me a death glare and accuse me of acting like a macho asshole, that is.
She would, though. And that would make me smile just the same.
I’ve got it bad.
When we get back to the farm, Daphne notes the presence of her mother’s car. “I hope her date went well.”
“You don’t sound like you hope so,” her brother snickers.
“Shut up. I’m trying.”
Dylan laughs. And the minute he and Chastity are out of the truck, they go skipping toward the bunkhouse, probably to have loud sex all night. In fact, Dylan actually sweeps Chastity up and carries her toward the bunkhouse, while she shrieks in protest. They bounce off into the darkness together.
I catch Daphne watching them. So I brace my arms and bend my knees like I’m about to scoop her up, too.
“No,” she says, holding out her palm to stop me.
I straighten up, laughing. “Kidding. I wouldn’t dare.”
“Good.”
“Apparently I like my women prickly.”
“Apparently you do,” she says, opening the kitchen door and marching inside.
Daphne goes to greet her mother, and I slink upstairs alone. I take a turn in the shower, and by the time I’m done, she’s in her room with the door shut.
She would have left it open if she wanted my company. So I go into my room and lock the door. As one does.
I lay down in bed and listen as Daphne’s door opens. She takes her turn in the bathroom and then returns to her room.
No knock on my door, either. I hug my pillow and wonder what she’s doing. She's probably propped up in bed, reading something brainy.
If I were lying next to her, I’d pick up a book, too. I’d put a hand on her smooth knee, and stroke her skin with one hand while I turned pages with the other.
Daphne is smart, and very invested in her work. So it's possible she wouldn't toss the book aside and jump me. I'd have to work for it. I'd let my hand roam her long legs. Then I'd close my book and roll over to drop kisses on her smooth stomach...
And, yup. One of us is horny already.
Ah well.
As a distraction, I haul my laptop onto the bed and run a few internet searches. After all, I have some new material to work with. USTSA yacht club party.
Nothing.
Boathouse party. USTSA Christmas party. Bash. Open Weekend.
Nope. Nothing.
I’ve tried some of these terms before, of course. But until now I never had the clue of "boathouse" before.
Still, I try a couple dozen permutations and come up empty every time. If this party was a secret, or unsanctioned, people probably knew better than to label their selfies. What I need are names.
I try my roommate's name. I’ve put him into a dozen internet searches before. Paul White boathouse party. As usual, I get some hits for a country music singer with a similar name. This time I also turn up a French impressionist painting called The Boating Party.
Not helpful.
So I plug in the one other Academy name I can think of—Daphne's horrible ex. Reardon Halsey Christmas party.
I sit up straight as the screen fills with images. I choose a thumbnail at random, and get a photo of four guys in tuxes holding champagne flutes.
I scan the faces, and bam. My gut clenches in recognition of the guy on the end. I know that face. I hate that face.
Holy shit.
Honestly, I need to look away from the screen for a moment and take a slow breath. My pulse is elevated, and I actually feel nauseated.