Page 54 of Fake Crown

“That’s not what this is,” I say when she tries to walk past me.

“Explain it then.” Her glare is defiant.

“I don’t know. But it’s not that,” I say. The other emotions I recognize in myself, but the blind rage I experienced when I realized Chet had made Posey uncomfortable enough she resorted to violence is new. “Look, I’m sorry, okay? It’s just that...” I care.

“You should really get a handle on those feelings,” Posey calls over her shoulder as she heads toward the door. “Or your next girlfriend will be able to manipulate you just like Val did.”

A ball lodges itself at the base of my throat at her words. When she goes back into the house, I stand outside debating my options. Go home or go back inside. If Posey wants me to pretend like I don’t give a shit about her, I can do that.

Fuck it.

Striding back into the house, I deposit my coat on a chair close to the door, and I head to the kitchen for a beer. When I glance around for some sort of tip jar like the swim team has, Deacon claps me on the back.

“Keep your money. We get one party a year funded by Malcolm Durrant. You’re at it.”

“Must be nice,” I say, and I take a swig.

“Maybe we should be doing shots. Surprised you didn’t come back in here after Chet again.” Deacon grabs shot glasses from the counter and holds them up to the light.

“Posey can do whatever the fuck she wants,” I mutter.

“You’re right. Posey will do whatever the fuck she wants.” He takes down the tequila from a cabinet above the oversized fridge.

I shake my head and gulp back my beer before setting my empty on the island. The rest of the party is buzzing around us. The house keeps getting fuller, and I’m surprised no one streaming into the house stopped to gawk at my domestic with Posey outside.

“For what it’s worth, I was making my way through the crowd to intervene when you showed up.”

I wave him off. “I don’t even know what the fuck I’m doing. What am I doing, Deacon? What am I doing?”

He slides a shot of tequila across the granite countertop. “Falling in love with Posey Jensen?”

I stare into the clear liquid. Falling in love with Posey Jensen. Seems impossible. It’s been a week. Who falls in love in a week? Whatever I felt when I saw the result of Chet pressuring her, it wasn’t normal. Val and I were together for over a year, and I never felt anything close to the desperate rage that seized me at the realization he might have hurt her.

“I have two more Olympic runs before I can fall in love with anyone.” I hold out my glass for a refill. “You and Destiny can’t be serious with her being drafted to the WNBA.”

“Not serious? Man, what gave you that impression? This is our last year here, and then I’m following her wherever she goes. We’re going to be the power couple of the WNBA. I’m going to run her brand like a champ.”

“You sound like Val.” I hold out my shot glass for a third. Beer I can handle fine, but hard liquor goes to my head a bit faster. “Brand, brand, the fucking brand.”

Deacon chuckles. “Don’t hold back.” He pours himself some tequila and raises it toward his lips. “You could build an empire off your swimming accomplishments already. Two more appearances and you might be revered as a god.”

I roll the shot glass between my hands before sending it sailing toward him across the granite. “To do that, I can’t get distracted.” I glance over my shoulder to where Posey has gravitated to a group of women and is laughing like we didn’t get in a fight outside. “Can’t get swept up in unnecessary drama. In six years, I can do whatever I want.”

“She’s not going to be around in six years. I can guarantee that. She might be a tough nut to crack, but someone is definitely going to think she’s worth the effort. No doubt about it.” Deacon drops our shot glasses into the cluttered sink.

A tight band twists around my chest, and I stretch my arms toward the ceiling in a bid to dislodge it. Must have pulled a muscle.

He perks up at something happening behind me, and he grins. “Destiny waits for no man.” Then he steps around the island, and I turn to see him loop his lanky arm over his girlfriend’s shoulders, and she squeezes him tight.

Posey is standing beside her. There’s a looseness to how she’s standing that tells me the alcohol is getting to her. When our gazes connect, her brown eyes are lit with a familiar desire, as though she could melt into me with very little effort.

Instead of going to her, I head to the chair near the front door that my coat is draped across. She didn’t answer my question about any other guys she might still be seeing, and she got irrationally angry with me for defending her.

Drama. It’s the last fucking thing I need.

Twice I’ve turned Val’s advances down with Posey nowhere in sight. This fake dating idea is a crutch I no longer need. Cut it off. Cut her out. Someone else can try to crack the tough outer shell she’s cultivated to keep men out. I don’t have time for that shit.

I open the front door, and I leave the party without looking back.