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I felt stupid for that concern now, and though I intended to text him the picture I took and show him what an ass he fucking was, I didn’t. I just left, flustered more than I wanted to be.
Idiot.
I wished I’d been mentally calling him that, but I wasn’t. I went to that rave like some dipshit checking on a guy who was, well, not all completely there. He fucked like a god, but he was insane, and I didn’t know what I was thinking.
My chest hurt.
I rubbed it upon heading back to my dorm, chugging stomach relaxer along the way. I had my rideshare driver stop at a pharmacy before taking me home. It was actually my second stop. The first had been a pizza place where I proceeded to devour half a deep dish like an idiot.
Hence the hurting chest.
I didn’t typically have acid reflux, and I blamed the sharp burning in my chest completely on that.
I rubbed beneath my nose, sniffling. I hadn’t told my security I was going out and, honestly, hadn’t thought to. The only reason I really got security was Thatcher, and he clearly wasn’t coming after me.
I rubbed my chest again, tucking my Pepto Bismol in my purse before tugging off my wig. There was no way I was going to fucking classes in the morning after staying up half the night, and I had no idea what time it was by the time I got back to my dorm.
I stopped in the center of the hallway. In fact, I stopped dead fucking center, and the person sitting in front of my door was well aware.
Thatcher Reed looked like shit. Hell, he looked like shit mixed with hell and a side of fucked up. His dark hair was strewn about like it always was, but it was the bags under his eyes and fatigued expression that made him look like hell. He appeared exhausted on my doorstep in the ribbed tank and jeans he’d worn at the rave, and in the hallway’s clear light, I could see the body glitter on his dark tank and jeans.
Her glitter.
I fought the bile in my throat, and upon seeing me, Thatcher got right up. He filled the whole fucking hallway with his bulky frame, and I hated myself for the intrusive thoughts I had. How I noticed just how well those jeans sat on his chiseled hips and the way that tank hugged his huge pecs. His tank top fully exposed how ridiculously large he was, how broad…
“Snowflake…” Thatcher stepped forward. Well, stumbled. He appeared drunk on top of everything else, and the light in the hall appeared to bother him. He squeezed his eyes before focusing on me. He pocketed his hands. “You didn’t come home last night.”
He hadn’t either. Though, I was sure he didn’t know I knew that. He was clearly high as hell at that rave. I bunched my arms. “You obviously didn’t either.”
I mean, he was sitting at my door.
I can’t do this.
The drug from the pharmacy was just starting to work. Even if it was only kind of working for my issues. I still had that harsh beat in my chest, that searing pain…
Not letting Thatcher see that shit, I maneuvered around him, and I heard him sigh like he had any right to do that. He’d ghosted me for days after leaving my ass at that motel. And let’s not forget the fact that he probably fucked that bitch at the rave.
It didn’t matter. None of it mattered, and for some reason, I couldn’t get into my dorm. The key wouldn’t maneuver into the lock, my hand shaking too bad.
“I wanted,” Thatcher started, but then stopped upon seeing I was struggling. He eased between the space of the lock and my hands, and I was so goddamn flustered I let him take the key.
I nearly barked at him, wondering what the hell he thought he was doing, but then he opened my door for me. He did that even though he was clearly inebriated and I wasn’t.
He opened the door slightly but didn’t give me back the key. Nor did he move away, and I loathed how much he filled the hallway with his smell. He still smelled so good, fresh and airy. He wrestled in his dark locks, his earrings dangling. “I wanted to apologize.”
Okay, so I wasn’t expecting that. An apology. I folded my arms, waiting for the laundry list. “Well, that’s?—”
“My friends texted and told me Wells came over. He did, and that was completely out of line, and I’m sorry about that. He shouldn’t have done that, and that was shit.”
I had to say. I stopped talking. Mostly out of clear shock.
Out of all the things he’d done, that was what he was apologizing for? I mean, he should apologize for that, but that was only the tip of the frickin’ iceberg.
I was shocked, enraged, and my face heated so fucking bad I thought I’d physically spit lava. Well, if that was possible, I would have. I eyed him. “You’re fucking joking, right?”
“What?” He really was not all there. He kept shaking his head, and every once in a while, he’d stare daggers at the lights in the hall like they were wreaking havoc on his blue eyes.
Good. The jerk deserved some fucking pain, discomfort.
