Page 59 of Back Outside Edge

"You didn't get notifications? I've gotten dozens."

"I have them turned off. Why? What happened?"

What did Stefan do? He couldn't have done anything. He would have told me. Wouldn’t he have? Why is he avoiding my eyes?

Another grimace before Luc pulls out his phone. It doesn't take him much navigating before he’s pulling up a picture and turning his phone toward me.

The world goes still as my heart stops.

"Ay, dios mío."

I don't slip into Spanish often. It's rare enough that my parents don't think I speak it anymore. But if ever a moment called for it, this is it.

Because taking up the screen of Luc's phone is a picture taken about thirty feet from where we’re standing. A picture showing Stefan's face clearly, his expression filled with—well, even if someone hadn't been lucky enough to see that expression as many times as I have, there’s no question it’s lust. His head's thrown back, eyes closed, and a dark, curly-haired man has his face pressed against Stefan's neck.

I swallow, hard, trying to force down the impossibly huge lump that's strangling me. Luc's arm wraps around my shoulder and squeezes. "There's more," he says, voice soft.

There doesn't need to be more. This is enough. I swallow again, though, trying to nod, and reach up to pan through the pictures. A picture of Stefan and me in front of my room, hugging, bodies too close for mere friends. Another of our backs as we're walking down the hall, heads tipped toward each other. We're not holding hands, but it's obvious we want to be, our fingers and shoulders angling in. One more taken in the breakfast nook of the two of us kissing.

"Fuck." The word’s barely a breath, but I can't stop it.

Luc squeezes me tighter. "Most people won't know that it's you. Just those of us who see you a lot, probably."

"What?" I flip through the pictures again, this time noting that every single one is taken from behind my back. My face doesn't show anywhere. Why? Did the photographer think I’d be more likely to notice them? "Who posted these?"

Luc shrugs. "Nobody knows. It was a burner account. It’s got to be someone here at the hotel, though. Maybe staff?"

The pieces click into place. The view from the hallway photos is all too familiar, because less than twelve hours ago, I was in that precise place, looking out at Stefan. Those pictures came from the doorway of my room.

It wasn’t staff. It was Alexandre. It has to have been Alexandre.

He must have followed us when we left and snuck into the breakfast area to get those shots. How did he hide when Stefan checked around the corner?

Oh God. He knew what I was doing all along, all through the endless grilling last night, keeping me up too late with his annoying questions. He was messing with me, trying to get under my skin, make me paranoid.

Has he still not let go of his feud with Stefan, years after the fight? Luc didn’t want to tell me in front of him. God, has he been crowing about it all morning? Not admitting to what he’s done, or Luc would know, but the fact that the photos exist? That someone has outed Stefan?

“I am going to kill him.”

Before Luc can respond, I'm spinning on my heel, marching back into the breakfast room. The noise has picked up again, to almost the level it was when I first arrived, but people are still watching Stefan out of the corners of their eyes; the noise is them gossiping about my boyfriend.

Luc's following close behind me, saying something. Trying to stop me. I couldn’t care less. The only thing I can see is Alexandre. His smug, arrogant, asshole face watching me with a smirk.

My fist is about a foot away from hitting his face when somebody grabs my arm, stopping it cold. I'm doing my best to yank it free and all but spitting at Alexandre at the same time. "You absolute fucking asshole. What the fucking hell? Who do you think you are?"

His smirk widens. Oh, I am going to murder the shit out of him. "Evan." It's Luc's voice. He's trying to be reasonable, trying to make me stop.

Alexandre, the absolute slimy slug of a person, leans back further in his chair. All casual, as if I'm not two feet from punching his lights out. "Careful, Evan, or you'll give away who the mystery man is." His voice is taunting, but quiet. What the hell?

“Why didn’t you just fucking tag me while you were at it?”

“Because you don’t deserve it,” he answers, as if that’s a perfectly reasonable response. As if any of this is reasonable.

"Like he does? Why would you do something like this? He's paid his dues. He's left you alone for years. Why do you have to keep making him miserable?" I’m still spitting angry, but I have to understand. I have to. If Stefan was right about the room mishap, and if I’m right about these pictures, why? Why try so hard to make Stefan so miserable?

Alexandre's eyes narrow. I'm getting through to him in some way. Pissing him off, but it's better than him being a smug, self-righteous asshole. "He broke my nose." It’s confirmation, if I needed it.

"He broke your nose. He broke your nose? And somehow that makes it ok to publicly out him? To humiliate him? To fucking sabotage him at Worlds? What the hell, Alexandre? I knew you were an asshole, but this is... Beyond." My voice is climbing registers, going shrill, but I don't care. I'm still struggling against Luc, trying to get my hands on the little fucking asshole in front of me.