It’d be like preferring a rusted Honda over a rare French sports car.
Surely she knows she can do better than this.
“Have you ever tried to, like, count the stars? Just to see how high you can count?” he asks, slurring as he bumps his shoulder against hers.
Is he trying to impress her?
Trying to sound deep or metaphorical?
Going to have to try harder than that, idiot …
I lean back, taking a sip of my beer and watching the shit show unfold as I wait for the perfect time to crash this little love nest.
“No,” she says, staring up at the sky. “That sounds … honestly … pretty boring.”
He laughs. “Yeah, I guess you’re right.”
She takes a sip, and he makes no effort to conceal the fact that he’s checking her out with some shameless side eye. It’s like a scene from a movie, where the guy is fidgety and nervous and the girl is oblivious and has no idea he’s counting down the seconds until he tries to kiss her.
Not on my watch.
Honda guy leans in—just as she take another sip.
And they bump heads.
She laughs. He laughs.
“You all right?” Sheridan reaches for the side of his head, running her fingers through his short pricks of shit brown hair.
“Yeah.” He cups his hand over hers and doesn’t once ask if her fucking head is okay. “That was my fault.”
“Damn right it was,” I interject because I can’t take this any longer.
They whip around in tandem and Sheridan gasps, hand over her chest.
“August, what the hell are you doing here?” She rises from the step she was occupying. Generic Honda guy follows suit, his watchful gaze darting between hers and mine. I know his type. I went to school with millions of crew cut ass wipes like him. If I wanted to, I could shoot him one look that’d make him shit his pants.
“Didn’t Adriana tell you? She invited me.” I hide a satisfied smirk behind a swig of beer. “Supposedly there’s a friend she wants to hook me up with. Apparently I’m just her type.”
Sheridan squints. Either she doesn’t believe me or all of this is news to her.
But honestly, this worked out. Dad is spending a rare weekend at home, which means I wouldn’t have been able to entertain the Rose girl at my place. And I would have. If Adriana wasn’t throwing this little get together, I’d have organized another beer bash at my place solely as an excuse to get Sheridan on my territory again.
If I tried to sneak her in tonight, though, my father would lose his shit. And the last thing I need is him interfering in any of this and making it about him.
“So maybe you should go look for her friend?” Sheridan folds her arms, though it’s an uncoordinated effort. Hard to know how many cheap beers she’s downed, but I’d venture to guess it’s enough for a solid buzz.
Honda guy is silent, and he might as well be invisible—which says a lot. But judging by the way he dresses, I’m sure he’s used to it.
He’s a nothing and a no one; a background guy.
I’m the main-fucking-character.
“Pretty sure I found her,” I say. “In fact, I’m looking at her right now.”
She wrestles a smile from her lips but it makes its way to her glimmering irises. “You knew I was going to be here, didn’t you? She told you. I know she did. I’m going to kill her …”
“Actually, I had no idea if you were coming.”
I’d merely hoped.
I drove back and forth past the house tonight until I saw her car outside and then I waited to make my arrival. It’s a stalker move, but it worked. Because here she is. And here I am. And everything is turning up fucking roses—literally.
I take a step toward her. Honda begins to say something, but I silence him with a murderous look. When the imbecile tries to speak again, I interrupt him before he can get the first word out.
“Do yourself a favor and get the hell out of here,” I say. “Have some pride, man. Your game is weak.”
“August.” Sheridan swats at me, though she’s still too far away to touch. “Don’t be mean. Garrett, I’m so sorry …”
The guy heads inside without a word. I’m not sure how much time we have alone out here. That house is hardly big enough to hold a family of five and there are probably a couple of dozen people inside already and the night is young.
Before coming outside, I slipped a guy in a backwards trucker hat a fifty and told him to make sure no one sets foot on the patio of the night … but the jackass seems to have left his post. I should’ve known better than to trust a drunk dressed like Ashton Kutcher circa 2008.