Ryen isn’t why I’m in Falcon’s Well, but I knew I would run into her here. Something I feared.
She doesn’t deserve my attention. Annie’s all that matters. But after months of not giving a shit about anything—my family, friends, or music—having Ryen close is kind of distracting. In an almost pleasant way.
It doesn’t matter, though. I have the file, and as soon as I have what else I came here to collect, I’m gone. I earned enough credits to graduate in January, and I’m not going back home. I’m taking my fake name and my fake I.D., and I’m going to try to forget.
Forget that I was taking selfies with Ryen that night, ignoring my instincts and responsibilities, while my sister was dying alone on a dark, cold road.
We walk into the locker room, knowing that the pool is accessible from it. Passing by the offices and through the locker bay, I see something out of the corner of my eye and catch a glimpse of two bodies in the shower.
I enter the hallway and slow to a stop.. Did I just see…?
I jerk my chin at Dane and point ahead. “There’s a pool through there. Give me a sec.”
He nods lazily and heads out of the locker room. I turn around again and, keeping my body close to the wall, I peer carefully around the corner again.
Amusement pulls at the corners of my mouth. Well, it looks like not everyone in cheer and lacrosse has gone home for the night, after all.
Trey Burrowes, the guy who thinks Ryen is his, stands in the shower, holding her best friend—Lyla, is it?—up against the bathroom wall, both of them naked, wet, and fucking as the showers spray around them.
Classic.
Lyla’s dark hair is up in a wet ponytail, and her arms and legs are wrapped around him, holding on tight while he grips her ass and goes at her, both of them breathing hard and moaning quietly.
This is the guy Ryen wants to take her to prom? She chooses her dates about as well as her friends. I wonder how long they’ve been screwing behind her back.
But hopefully, if he’s fucking this girl, then he might not be getting it from Ryen.
An ounce of pleasure hits me.
I turn around and walk down the hallway again, pushing through the locker door and seeing the impressive, ten-lane indoor pool.
Parents sit on the bleachers, observing and taking pictures, while Dane leans against the wall. I walk over and stand next to him, following his gaze.
Ryen stands in the pool with four students—all kids, probably younger than ten—and moves her arms in big circles as she dips her face in the water.
The students count. “One-two-three-breathe!” they scream, and Ryen twists her head to the side, taking a breath before dipping it back in. She circles her arms again, pretending to push herself through the water, doing three strokes as they count. “One-two-three-breathe!”
She lifts her head up and stands up straight as she pushes her hair back off her forehead. “Okay, now your turn!”
All the kids begin mimicking her as she counts.
And I just watch her. She lets out a big smile, clearly proud as they all fall into sync, completing their strokes and breathing when they should, and I have to fight not to laugh when one of the boys splashes her accidentally. She feigns a growl and splashes him back.
“Alright, again!” she shouts. “One-two—” And then she stops, her eyes falling on me.
They narrow, and I hold her gaze, recognizing the temper flaring as her smile falls.
“Again!” she bites out at the kids, her eyes dropping to my hand with the notebook.
“That water looks cold,” Dane comments, a quiet laugh following, and I know what he’s referring to.
I let my eyes fall to her breasts, seeing the hard points of her nipples straining against her long-sleeved, black rash guard. A pretty impressive feat, considering the wet material is clinging to her skin, and I can see that she’s also wearing a bikini top under the shirt, adding extra padding.
Which I’m grateful for. I look up at the bleachers, seeing a few dads gazing down, and while they’re probably looking at their kids, I don’t like that they might be looking at her. She doesn’t need to give them a show.
I drop my eyes back to her, watching her smile at the kids.
“Great job, everyone!” She walks down the line, giving them high fives before standing in front of the last one, asking, “Washing machine or cannonball?”