Page 53 of Fake Crown

“I’m happy to give you a demonstration to remind you.” He loops his arm around my waist, and he half carries me to pin me against the wall.

Brent’s done a similar move, and it was sexy as hell. This, at a party, when I’ve made it clear for months that he lost his chance, is repulsive. When my back hits the wall, I glare at him, and then I splash what’s left of my shitty drink in his smug face.

His expression turns from amused to pissed off in a flash. Instead of unpinning me, he leans closer and lets the liquid drip off his chin and into my cleavage. “I can lick that off later. Once you apologize for being a bitch.”

“The only thing I might apologize for later, and even that’s doubtful, is this.” Then I raise my knee fast and hard right into his balls.

Chet lets out a deep groan just as the front door opens beside me and someone calls out a greeting to Brent. Chet stumbles back, clutching himself, and when I glance at the entrance, Brent is taking in the scene. His expression goes from confused to angry in a split second.

My stomach flips when our gazes connect. We haven’t spoken or even exchanged a single text all day. Since I came out of the shower this morning and discovered he didn’t stay, there’s been a low-level buzz of anxiety in my gut. While I wasn’t sure what to expect from Brent when he arrived, it’s clear what’s on his mind now.

Murder.

Brent

People use the expression ‘seeing red’ for a reason, but I’m not sure why that is. Right now, I’m seeing black spots on the edges of my vision, as though my brain is in danger of short circuiting.

Without waiting for an explanation, I grab Chet by the neck of his shirt and shove him farther away from her.

“What the fuck were you doing?” His soaked shirt, her half-empty drink, and him clutching his balls are three red flags too many.

“Relax, Faulkner,” he says. “It’s not like you’re the only guy to park his Ferrari in her garage.”

“Ferrari?” Posey laughs. “In your case it was more like a Mini Cooper. Is it in yet? Are you sure?”

“Fuck off,” Chet says with a sneer.

I shove him again, and Posey grabs my arm and drags me away from him. One more word out of him, and we’d have come to blows. My chest is hot, and as soon as we’re out in the cool November air, I suck in deep breaths trying to get whatever this feeling is under control. With Val, I got jealous, but she did it on purpose, and I understood how to play her games. I might not have liked them, but I understood them. The green-eyed monster is familiar to me, but this sensation creeping across my chest and surging through my limbs isn’t that. It’s a form of anger I’ve never felt before.

“God, Brent,” she says, and her breath forms a cloud in the air. “What is your problem? I was handling it.”

“My problem? When some asshole makes my girlfriend so uncomfortable she resorts to a sack shot, I’m allowed to care.”

She tilts her head at me. Fake girlfriend or not, if I didn’t step in to put Chet in his place, one of the other superstar athletes in there should have. The escalation from drink in his face to a kick in the nuts didn’t have to happen.

“Why are you staring at me like I’m dense? Are you still sleeping with him? Were you two having a lovers’ tiff?” I cross my arms over my bulky winter jacket.

“Are you accusing me of something?” Posey draws herself up to her full height.

“I don’t know,” I say. “Does that feel like an accusation?”

“Definitely feels like a loaded question.”

Two, actually. But they both amount to the same thing. “Are you still sleeping with him?”

She mirrors my crossed-arm pose but she’s not wearing a jacket. I wonder how much she’s had to drink that her coat of alcohol seems to be protecting her from the late November chill. She works her jaw as though she’s considering her answer. “What if I was?”

“I deserve to know,” I say. Other students stream into the house from the path a little way from where we’re arguing on the grass.

“Do I need to remind you that I’m doing you a favor?”

“You just did.” I shove my hands into my pockets. “Are you sleeping with anyone other than me?”

“We never said this was exclusive.”

“When I didn’t pick up last night, did you call someone else?”

“We’re not having this conversation.” Posey wags a finger at me. “We’re in a fake relationship. An exchange of goods and services. I service your dick. You service my pussy, and I get lattes too. That’s it.” She makes a swirling motion with her hand. “Whatever this is—jealousy or possessiveness—can be stored away for someone else. I don’t want it.”