We Don't Talk Anymore (The Don't Duet #1) - Julie Johnson Page 0,8

final deep breath, I force myself to leave the room. Hiding out up here like a coward, unable to own up to my own decisions… unable to face the hurt I know awaits me in a pair of wide blue eyes… is just putting off the inevitable.

Rip off the Band-aid, asshole.

Downstairs, the party has petered out a bit as the beer and the drugs weave their dark web. More than a few people are already passed out, sprawled on various surfaces. In the foyer, I head for the first keg I see and pump myself a beer. It tastes like foamed piss, but I chug it down anyway, then promptly refill my cup.

Chug it down.

Fill it again.

I have to drive home later, but that’s the least of my worries right now. The promise of oblivion has a certain gravitational pull that cannot be denied. Anything that might blunt the agony headed my way like a freight train.

How the hell am I supposed to face Jo sober?

Taking a fortifying gulp, I search for her. Frustration mounts as I walk through the house, moving from room to room, checking all her usual places and coming up short. Never a big fan of parties, she almost always winds up in some quiet corner or other, hiding out until we can leave.

Not tonight, it seems.

She’s not on the front porch, watering strangers’ plants. She’s not outside on a pool lounger, staring up at the stars. She’s not in the dark library, perusing the shelves. She’s not propped in the bed of my pickup truck, waiting on me to drive us home.

Where the fuck is she?

A fissure of concern fires through my nerve endings, but I tamp it down with another gulp of beer. Eventually, I find my way to the back of the house, where most of the still-conscious partygoers are congregated. Sienna is snorting white lines off the coffee table, flanked on either side by the Wadell twins. She doesn’t even look at me when I walk in.

In the adjacent kitchen area, half my teammates are playing pong. I wander their way, mouth opening to ask if anyone has seen Jo, but the words catch in my throat. She’s right there, in the most unexpected of places — leaning against the refrigerator with Ryan Shithead Snyder’s arm around her shoulders and a red cup in her hand.

I stop in my tracks.

The first thing that registers in my brain is how good she looks. No matter that I’ve seen her every day for as far back as I can remember, no matter that her face is more familiar than my own in the mirror. It slams into me, a fresh gut-punch each time.

In a kaleidoscope of skin-tight dresses and spray tans, she’s a pure ray of light — that blonde hair half falling out of its thick braid, her skin a pale glow in the dimmed light, those ridiculous cut-off shorts she thinks make her look like a tomboy but actually just highlight how her legs stretch on for miles. Over the years, I’ve spent more time fantasizing about those legs than I care to admit.

Dangling from our spot up in the rafters.

Running toward me down the boat dock.

Kicking in the crashing waves.

Wrapped around my waist as I piggyback her across the lawn.

The second thing that registers is that she’s drunk. Her eyes, those insane sky-blue eyes that always stare straight into my soul, are half-lidded. She’s leaning against the stainless steel fridge doors, looking unsteady on her feet. I have to fight the urge to race to her side, to hold her up.

Someone’s already there. Already doing it.

Already in my place.

Ryan, that fuckwit, says something that makes her giggle. She sways slightly off balance, and he uses the opportunity to pull her closer against his bare chest. My grip clenches so hard around my cup, I hear the plastic crackle in protest.

Son of a bitch.

Ryan’s hands are all over her, roaming with a familiarity that sets my teeth on edge. I watch his dumb fucking fingers twist in the fabric of her sweater and feel a volt of something unpleasant snake through me. I want to close the distance and rip them off her. Violently. I want to grab her by the hand and drag her away from here, away from him, even though I know that’s the absolute last thing I’m supposed to be doing tonight.

I can’t help it. Reason, common sense, intelligent thought… they all evaporated the instant I saw her.