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Brody was standing up against the wall, turned away from me. Clinging to his bicep was the woman wearing the bikini and nothing else, her big fake tits practically glistening under the nearby heat lamp. She touched his chest, tracing the lines of his muscles with her fingertip.
Brody must have said something funny, because she doubled over with laughter—and used the excuse to press her body closer to his. The tall football player then gave her that charming grin of his.
It felt like someone had ripped my heart out and hurled it against the wall.
I turned and fled back inside, tears welling in my eyes and blurring my vision as I weaved through the crowd of merry partiers. I wanted to leave, but then the valet attendants would see me crying. I needed to find somewhere secluded. I found myself in the entrance room with the chandelier and made my way toward the stairs, hopeful that I could find a secluded room upstairs to bawl in. But a Stallions player dressed as Neo from The Matrix was standing at the foot of the stairs, chatting up one of my fellow cheerleaders.
“Where you going?” he asked me.
I spun back around and fled down another hallway, one that led toward the detached garage. I opened the first door that I came to, hoping for a bathroom or something. But it was a coat closet instead.
This will have to do, I thought, flicking the light on and closing the door behind me.
As soon as I was alone in the dim closet, my eyes became faucets and I allowed myself to cry. And not just any crying—ugly crying. The kind that shook my entire body and deepened the ache inside my chest rather than relieving it. I hoped nobody decided to leave the party at that moment, because they would find a mess of a girl in the closet if they did.
I wasn’t crying just out of grief. There was a lot of anger in my sobs, too. I was angry at the situation Brody and I were in, and angry at Isabella for causing it. I was angry at myself for lashing out at Brody in front of everyone. I was a smart woman; I should have been able to find another way to disarm the situation without publicly ridiculing the man I was crushing on.
And I was angry at him, Brody Carter, the charming player with the irresistible smile. Angry at him for attaching himself to the first woman he saw, a bimbo whose personality was as plastic as her chest.
When the sobs ceased, I grabbed a fur coat and used it to dry my eyes. It was soft and expensive. It probably belonged to the bikini bimbo. At least, that’s the excuse I told myself while tidying up my smeared mascara.
It was so stupid to come to this party. I had wanted, desperately, to see Brody. Even though I knew a situation might arise where Isabella saw us together. And I had done it anyway. I deserved whatever I got.
I was about to leave when the door opened.
