Page 255 of Rush

Alex’s face twists—rage and heartbreak in one lethal expression. He doesn’t even look at Broderick, his eyes firmly fixed on mine.

And in a cruel flash, I hear my own taunting voice from Atlanta echoing back at me:I had him last night. Over. And over again.The memory hits like a slap.

“You don’t even know what I’ve had to give up, you opportunistic bastard,” Alex yells. “She was mine first!”

“Are you two serious?” I step forward, my voice sharp. “You’re arguing over who gets to fuck me like I’m not standing right here?”

They freeze.

I yank my hand from Broderick.

“I’m not a prize,” I say, voice trembling but loud. “I’m not something you win for showing up at the right moment with the right line.”

Their silence burns.

“You want me to pick?” My throat tightens. “You want a winner?”

Alex’s gaze finds mine—pleading, broken. Broderick’s hand rests on my back, wordless. Waiting.

I look between them, heart thundering. “How about you two fuck each other tonight.”

The air between us is razor-thin.

I step back away from the both of them. “I can’t do this here. Not now.”

I walk away, neither of them follows.

It’s beena week since New Year’s. I should still be riding the high of that performance—the lights, the confetti, the sound of my name echoing through Times Square. Instead, all I can think about is the fight.

Broderick. Alex.

Both of them standing there, me right in the middle.

I haven’t spoken to either of them since.

After the adrenaline of that night—the music, the kiss—I’d finally started to feel steady again. Like maybe I was falling for Broderick.

And then Alex.

Of course it was Alex.

Swooping in, slicing the moment in half, like he always fucking does. Dragging every buried feeling to the surface before I even had the chance to name what I wanted.

It knocked the air right out of me. One second I was weightless, breathless—on the edge of something real. The next, I was gasping for air, searching for solid ground.

Would I ever be free of him? Would I ever stop wanting what hurts?

Curled up on the couch, hoodie pulled over my knees, I cradle a mug of something warm I don’t remember making. My fingers are cold around the ceramic.

They’re both watching me.

“So…” Riley drawls, leaning back into the sofa. “Did you and Broderick ring in the new year with a quickie?”

Philippa doesn’t even look up from her phone. “Yeah. You left rather abruptly.”

A beat later, she wrinkles her nose. “Please don’t talk about them fornicating. It’s like my brother and sister. If this baby wasn’t already making me sick, I don’t need the visuals.”

I choke on a laugh. “Can we not use the wordfornicating?”