We Don't Talk Anymore (The Don't Duet #1) - Julie Johnson Page 0,10

but I can’t seem to look away. It rattles as the koi flops within, fighting for survival. His odds aren’t looking good if no one intervenes.

Dammit.

The last thing I want to do at this moment is save a goddamned oversized goldfish, but it seems I have no choice. I can’t leave the little guy in the hands of these clowns. Don’t get me wrong, I’m not some PETA warrior. I’ve heard all the arguments for plant-based diets and vegan lifestyles — “Fish are friends, not food!” — but I still enjoy a nice piece of swordfish on the grill. I’m always in favor of a clam bake on the coals. Give me some melted butter and a claw-crusher, I will happily decimate a lobster in under five minutes.

The one thing I cannot stand is wastefulness. Entitlement. Some rich kid reaching down into your tiny-ass pond, where you were minding your own business, swimming around in happy circles, never knowing any better… and yanking you out, into the air, just for sport. Just because he can.

That’s the shit I can’t quite swallow.

In this room full of trust fund brats and fourth-generation millionaires, I probably have more in common with the fish flopping inside that cup. Not that they know that, of course. If they did, I’d never be standing here in the first place.

“Stop dawdling, Chris!” Andy hoots. “Drink up!”

Chris steels his shoulders and takes a deep breath, preparing himself. Annoyed — at myself, at my idiot teammates — I snatch the cup off the countertop before he has a chance to grab it.

“This is the most idiotic shit I’ve ever witnessed,” I hiss through gritted teeth. “Where’s the pond? I’m putting him back.”

Andy groans. “Reyes, don’t be a buzzkill! We’re just having a little fun.”

“Your definition of fun is not the same as mine, Hilton.” I push past him on my way to the patio. Chris, I notice, looks more than a little relieved to see me go.

“Where’s your sense of humor, man?” Andy yells at my back. “I used to think you were chill!”

“And I used to think you weren’t an asshole. Things change.” With that, I step through the doors, into the dark, and set off in search of the goddamned koi pond. Figures, it’s on the farthest edge of the property — it’s been that kind of night.

I glance down at the orange fish. He’s still gasping for air, but he seems to be struggling less than before. Doubtful that’s a good sign, I pick up my pace.

Hang in there, little guy.

I don’t regret saving him from a brutal final swim in the bowels of Chris Tomlinson’s stomach; I do regret that this act of piscine altruism will undoubtedly delay my efforts to locate Jo.

An image of Ryan’s arm sliding over her shoulders slams into my mind. His fingers, twisting in her sweater. Her eyes, glazed with the effects of alcohol.

Cursing under my breath, I break into a jog.

Chapter Five

JOSEPHINE

I’m drunk.

I’m not certain how I know this for sure, seeing as I’ve never even been tipsy before, but things are definitely… off-kilter. In a big way.

There’s a slight haze wrapped around my brain. It’s like staring at the world through fog. Everything is at once duller and brighter, louder and farther removed. Despite the disembodied sensation, I am acutely aware of myself in a way I’ve never before experienced.

The press of the steel refrigerator at my back. The scratch of the wool sweater against my skin. The warmth of Ryan’s arm, wrapped around my shoulders. The slight tingle of nervous energy gathered at the base of my spine.

Chugging ten cups of beer will do that to a girl, I suppose. Not that I have much experience to go on. Besides the six-pack of IPAs Archer dared me to pilfer from my parents’ spare fridge a few summers back, I’ve never had more than a few sips at any of these parties.

In retrospect, maybe I should have. I can’t deny, the buzz is making it all much more tolerable. The music isn’t nearly as jarring to my ears. The jocks’ constant chest-bumping is almost endearing, now. Hard as it is to believe, even Sienna isn’t bothering me — despite the fact that, when I drained my final cup, she merely faked a yawn, whispered ‘boooooring’ under her breath, and wandered off toward the den to snort a few lines.

Whatever.

It’s not like I was expecting her to do cartwheels in my honor, or anything. I don’t need her praise.