Page 3 of Monstrous Serpent

Me: ok have fun

“Everything okay?”

“Yeah. Plans changed.” I toss the phone onto the mattress. “Going for a drive instead.”

“Uh, okay.”

I grab a black hoodie from the closet and a pair of joggers. Once dressed, I grab my keys and wallet from my desk.

Doyle drops his phone onto his chest. “You sure you're good?”

“Just need air.”

“Don't do anything stupid.”

I shove my feet into a pair of sneakers. “When have I ever done anything stupid?”

“Literally today at practice when you—”

“Rhetorical question, Doyle.”

“Be safe, man.”

I don’t respond, just walk out of the room.

There might not have been an exact location on the website, but I know the Pine Barrens. Dad and Brayden ran the duathlon out there last spring. They talked about it for weeks after. Couldn’t shut up about the brutal terrain, how they pushed each other, and their finish in the top ten percent.

I wasn't invited. Not because they excluded me. Because it didn't occur to them to ask.

Whatever.

The hallway outside our room is quiet. Most guys are either out already or getting ready to leave. Saturday night at Crestwood, everyone's got somewhere to be, someone to see, something to prove.

I take the stairs two at a time, my footsteps echoing off the old wood. Young Hall used to be a rich family's mansion back in the day, all chandeliers and leather chairs and shit that's supposed to make you feel important.

It doesn’t.

Not when you aren’t a choice, just the default.

Outside, I practically speed walk to my Range Rover in the half-empty parking lot. I unlock it, slide in, and start the engine just as my phone buzzes again.

Another text.

Cindy: Miss you already! Maybe tomorrow instead?

Another lie.

She thinks I'm too dumb to figure it out.

Wrong fucking bet.

Because I'm the guy who notices everything. Every shift in a defenseman's hips. Every tell on a girl's face. Every time someone's tone changes when they realize I'm not tracking the conversation. I see all of it, and nobody gives me credit for it because it's not the kind of smart that counts.

Well, it counts tonight.

The tires squeal as I pull out of the campus lot, turning onto the main road that leads out of Rosewood Bay. I press the accelerator and watch as the speedometer climbs.

My girlfriend wants to treat me like I'm an idiot?