“Three out of five,” one of the guys announces while Blake and Zoe celebrate another victory by high-fiving each other.
“Didn’t they say that when they lost the last two sets?” I toss out.
“Last three,” Dora corrects.
“Do you want to get out of here? My armpit is starting to hurt again.”
She nods enthusiastically, which makes me chuckle. It wouldn’t be a stretch to say Dora’s here against her will. “I’m heading to the bathroom. Be right back,” I tell her as I push away from the wall behind me.
It’s nearly impossible to move around the packed house. I get jostled and pushed around. The sweaty bodies buttressing me are the only reason I’m still upright.
Reagan’s nowhere to be seen. Makes sense. I doubt he was in the mood to come out for a party tonight. Win or no win.
Halfway across the room I pass Brock, who’s deep in conversation with the blond guy, Dallas. His expression serious, big hand gripping Dallas’s shoulder. “I’m worried about you…” I hear him tell his teammate.
I catch his eyes and ask him where I can find the bathroom. Meanwhile the blond conducts a blank-faced inspection of me, his bright blue eyes sharp and assessing. Nothing about his demeanor indicates he’s high or drunk so I assume the reckless behavior comes naturally.
“End of the hallway on the right,” Brock shouts back and returns to his conversation.
Getting through the crowd takes forever. When I finally reach the hallway, it’s blessedly empty. And long. Door after door confuses me.
Did he say last door? On the right or left? I can’t think straight with the music blasting. Consequently, I pick a random door on the right and push it open.
Wrong door. Definitely wrong door.
Two girls and a guy occupy a large bed. He’s lying prone. One girl, a blonde, rides his dick and the other, a brunette, his face, which is obscured save for the dark hair against the pillow.
A creepy sensation rides across my skin.
The blonde girl moans. The other shouts. Meanwhile I can’t move a muscle. I’m rooted to the floor for what feels like forever, long enough for the chick on his face to come loudly.
My gaze lowers to the tiny dolphin etched on the outside of his calf. The girl riding his dick turns and giggles and his big hand squeezes her thigh. I think to myself, she sounds drunk. Which doesn’t matter, but manages to snap me out of my paralysis and sends me into action.
Slamming the door shut, I stand there for a moment to process what I just witnessed. My heart crawls up into my throat and my stomach turns into a churning cauldron of bile. My body knows there’s something wrong before my brain can catch up.
Long tan muscles. A dolphin tattoo on the outside of his calf. Brown hair.
That’s why I haven’t seen him all night. He was celebrating the victory at a private party of three. Or drowning his sorrows. Either way he was having a great time while I was worrying about him.
I’m stuck again, unable to move, shock and disappointment serving as lead weights strapped to my ankles. And even though I know I have no right to be upset, I’m devastated. Accomplished athlete usually equals a string of bed buddies. Hot, accomplished athlete means lower your expectations into a grave and throw dirt on top. But for whatever reason I wanted to believe he was different. That’s on me––my fault.
Weak-kneed, I lumber down two more doors. Guys like Reagan Reynolds don’t do girlfriends because they don’t need to, I remind myself. Not when he has so much being offered to him on a silver platter. Why would anyone choose to eat hamburgers and French fries every day, no matter how much they love hamburger and French fries, when they have a veritable smorgasbord of delights to choose from? They wouldn’t. And do I blame him? Hell no. I wish I could be him.
All the same, it’s time to stow this festering attraction someplace where it will never see the light of day again.
The urge to leave is a strong one. Mood bruised, I contemplate walking out the door and springing for an Uber with money I can’t spare. I can text the girls once I’m in the car. They’ll understand. First, I need to find a bathroom.
Grabbing the last knob on the right, I send up a prayer to the Lord to cut me a break and let this be it. Unlocked, the door swings open.
“Uhhh…sorry,” I mumble.
Lying on a bed with one hand tucked under his head and another clutching a beer bottle, Reagan tears his gaze away from whatever’s got his attention on the television and aims those go-green eyes at me.
No random girl is riding his dick, or his face. Blessed be the Lord.