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“Jesus, Nate,” I hiss, eyes wide as I look down at the blood dripping from Carter’s nose.
“You fucked him,” he says as he walks right into me, his chest bumping mine.
“I…”
“When, Carter?” he bites out, and it’s only now I realize he’s not talking to me, even though his eyes haven’t left mine yet.
“Dude, will you chill?” Carter laughs as he sits up, catching the blood in his palm. “I didn’t touch him until after he was eighteen.”
“After my fucking sister died,” he growls, turning away from me like he’s about to go for him a second time. “I’m gonna kill you.”
Without thinking, I reach out for him and fist the front of his shirt, pulling him back until he’s against me again. His nostrils flare as he glares down at me, his hands clenched into fists on the wall on either side of my head.
It’s probably not a good idea to touch him right now, not when he’s this out of it, but I don’t care. I want his attention on me—just me. Fuck Carter and his stupid fucking games.
“Just let him go,” I say quietly. “Please.”
His glare deepens, but he surprisingly does as I ask, neither of us moving as Carter stands up and smugly brushes the imaginary dirt off his chest. “You’re welcome,” he mouths to me, winking as he disappears around the corner.
I sneer at him before looking up at Nate, staring into his bloodshot eyes as his hands move down to my waist. He grabs me there like Carter did just minutes ago, only harder. I try not to moan at the contact, my heart beating like crazy in my chest.
“I could have punched him myself, you know?”
He breathes out a laugh, but it’s not a nice one. He’s laughing at me, not with me. “Oh, yeah?” he asks. “And why would you have done that?”
“Because I don’t want him.”
He says nothing for a second, his grip on my waist tightening as he stares at my mouth. “What do you want, party boy?”
“Don’t act like you don’t know.”
His forehead touches mine, and I curl my fingers into his shirt, bracing myself for whatever comes next. Just when I think he’s about to do something crazy, like kiss me—or hit me—a rough, broken sound leaves his throat, and he tears his face away from mine. “Fuck.” He looks disgusted. With himself or me, I don’t know. Probably a little of both.
He suddenly snatches the Coke from my left hand and glares at it, launching it down the hallway as hard as he can. I jump when he faces me again, swaying on his feet a bit as he grabs two handfuls of my hair and yanks my head back, making me wince.
Shit.
Shit, he looks mad.
Maybe this was a bad idea.
I don’t know what I was thinking.
“You’re scared,” he says.
“You’re drunk,” I say back.
But that’s not the problem.
The problem is I’m not. I’m sober and he hates it. He doesn’t understand it and it’s killing him.
“Tell me why, Xavi,” he says, his voice full of pain and torment as his eyes flick between mine. “Why do you get a second chance? Why do you get to live while she’s buried in the fucking dirt? It’s not fucking fair.”
I swallow, remembering how I thought that exact same thing just a few hours ago.
“I know,” I whisper, barely audible over the crack in my voice. “I’m sorry.”
“Just tell me why,” he repeats, losing his temper. “Why do you get to be better?”
