Laird
Where is she?
A minute ago, she’d been right behind me, so close I could feel her ragged breathing against my back. But by the time I finished staring down Marco and two other assholes—damn bass drum players—who seemed to think my outburst was just for show and I wasn’t one hundred percent dead fucking serious, she was gone.
I pushed through the crowd that was still amped up from Reese’s outrageous stunt. Not in the kitchen, not on the tiny balcony, and not in the bedroom or the connected bathroom.
I ran my hands through my hair before gripping the back of my neck in frustration.
Where the fuck did she go?
I made one more pass, double-checking where Marco was—shoving his tongue down some girl’s throat—and confirmed that Reese was nowhere near him.
My blood ran hot, then cold.
The image of Marco’s fingers curled around Reese’s waist as he held her dress up, baring her whole bottom half to the entire drumline played in technicolor inside my skull.
On repeat.
I wanted to roar, to wrap my fingers around his skinny neck and squeeze until he turned purple, to punch my fist right through the flimsy drywall of this shithole apartment.
But mostly, I wanted to make sure Reese was okay and I couldn’t do that if I couldn’t fucking find her.
My phone buzzed in the back pocket of my jeans. The plastic case was in serious danger of cracking as I crushed it in my hand, punching the passcode in viciously.
Reese: I left. I’m sorry I didn’t say goodbye, but I couldn’t stay any longer.
She’s safe. Thank fuck, she’s safe.
But my relief was short lived as the messages continued to arrive in quick succession.
Reese: I shouldn’t have done that.
Reese: Maybe tomorrow night is a bad idea.
I stilled, a thousand denials wanting to rip from my throat.
My fingers shook as I typed a reply.
Me: Because of me? Or because of some asswipes on drumline?
There was a long pause and my heart faltered, beating in triplets instead of quarter notes.
Those three gray dots appeared, telling me she was replying. Then they stopped.
I walked out of the apartment, not speaking to a soul, uncaring as I shouldered past a cluster of guys near the front door.
My lungs breathed easier just getting out of that room, but my legs failed me, and I sunk onto the steps, laser focused on those gray dots that were blinking again.
Reese: You’re the captain. I’m the girl trying to fit in where I’m not wanted.
Reese: How can you not see how bad of an idea this is?
Not me. It isn’t because of me.
The tightness around my chest loosened. This was a fumble, an interception. But I wasn’t out of the game yet.
Me: You’re the best damn idea I’ve had all year. And if you show up tomorrow, I’ll prove it.
I hesitated. I couldn’t force her to come—I didn’t want to force her to do anything. I wanted her of her own volition, this whirlwind of a woman who’d been driving me crazy from the moment I laid eyes on her.
My fingers twitched on the phone, a melody unfurling in my marrow. The song I only heard when I thought of Reese.
Me: Are you really going to let Marco and some shitheads you don’t even care about stop you? Are you going to let them win?
I sat there for another hour, until my ass went numb from the edge of the step and the first drunk guests started to stumble home, tripping past me as they left.
And the longer I sat there, my phone quiet in my hand, the calmer I became.
She hadn’t answered with another excuse. Hadn’t listed a litany of flimsy reasons to beg off. Hadn’t invented a friend with a family emergency she had to rescue at the last minute.
No, if I knew my girl, she was fuming on the other end, because nobody held her back from doing what she wanted. Not cancer. Not a hundred and eighteen years of drumline tradition. Definitely not some insecure motherfucker who couldn’t stand not being the center of attention.
And—if I was right—Reese Holland wanted me almost as badly as I wanted her.
She’ll be here.
I returned the vacuum to its home in the corner of the front closet, having done one last pass in the never-ending battle against Oscar’s shedding.
She’ll be here.
The salad was prepped and in the fridge, classic Caesar with fucking homemade croutons that I’d made following the instructions on a YouTube video, because she was worth the extra effort.
She’ll be here.
Steaks from a local butcher shop, not just the refrigerated section of the Publix around the corner, were marinating, ready to be thrown on the grill.
She’ll be here.
The asparagus, bundled with thick slices of peppery bacon, was ready to go, wrapped in heavy duty foil that could withstand the flames.
She’ll be here.
The whole apartment smelled like the sweet potatoes that had been baking in the oven for the last hour.
She’ll be here.
I took the fastest shower known to man, making sure my pits and prick were clean and rushing through the rest. I didn’t shave. She liked the stubble.
She’ll be here.
I opened a beer, needing to do something with my hands, needing to do anything to distract myself from the fact that she was fifteen minutes late.
She’ll be here.
Maybe I should change? I glanced down at my shirt, a soft gray tee that had an outline of Alabama on the chest and said Homegrown in thick, blocky letters below it. It wasn’t fancy, but if she showed up tonight, it wasn’t because of what I would or wouldn’t be wearing.
It would be because she couldn’t deny the chemistry between us any longer.
She’ll be here.
Oscar brought me his favorite tennis ball, raising his eyebrows expectantly. I threw it twenty-seven times before the doorbell rang.
She was here.