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I clench my fist, wishing I could break a motherfucker’s neck.
7
Carolina
Six MonthsLater
“I need chocolate chip cookies, babe, and I need them stat,” Rex shouts, bursting through the front door of my loft. “Mmm …I smell them. Perfect timing.”
My gaze moves from the TV to him. “What you need is to learn how to knock.”
He takes the few steps to my couch, collapses onto it, and throws his arm over the back while making himself comfortable. “I have a key.” He holds up said key, grins arrogantly, and shoves it into the pocket of his jeans. “No need to knock.”
I have a key to his place. He has a key to mine.
Rex claimed it was a stipulation of our friendship to have copies of each other’s keys when I moved into the loft above my older sister’s garage. I declared it insanityandan invasion of privacy when hestolemy key, went to Home Depot, and had a copy made.
After what happened at school, I was afraid my relationship with Rex would change. I’d started pushing him away due to an outside influence putting thoughts into my head.
“You honestly think you’ll stay friends?”
“He’s going to leave you as soon as he finds a girlfriend.”
“Push him away before he does you.”
I’d stupidly listened to someone I shouldn’t have.
The night I went to his dorm, I had no idea what to expect. All I knew was that I needed him, and like the best friend he is, he wrapped me in his arms, telling me everything would be okay. It was dumb of me to doubt him. We’ve always accepted each other wholeheartedly in our friendship. It’d take a lot for me to kick him out of my life, and I think it’s the same for him with me.
As he says, we’re lifers—C&R For-fucking-ever.
He suggested we get it tatted. I told him he was nuts.
I hadn’t realized how strong our bond was until that night. He was there for me. Under all the humor and ego is one of the sincerest people I know.
I sit cross-legged, shifting in my spot, and give him my full attention. “I’ll be sure to have the locks changed,” I reply, knowing damn well I won’t.
His signature crew haircut has grown out on the top, long and sticking up—his everyday look. He’s sporting dark jeans, a black shirt, and white sneakers. Casual is Rex’s style.
“What happened?” I question.
Cookies are our go-to when we’re having a bad day.
Correction: us hanging out and cookies are our go-to when we’re having a bad day.
“This game,” he explains, blowing out a stressed breath, “it’s kicking my ass. I can’t be in my apartment right now, or I’ll throw the console through the window.”
My face softens at his admission. Rex has worked his butt off on developing this game, and it means so much to him. Not only for his own self-gratification, but to also prove wrong everyone who’s doubted him for his career choice—those who claim he lazily sits at home, playing video games all day.
Eight months ago, on a whim, he sent in a demo of the game he’d been designing to one of the largest names in the industry. They loved it—which was no surprise to me. They gave him an advance and a year to finish it. Lately, he’s been stressing, wanting the final product to be perfect.
“I’ve also missed you,” he adds with a wink. “You never told me how your date with the douche bag went.”
“Why do you call every guy I go on a date with a douche bag?” I ask, raising a brow. “You don’t even know him.”
The date was a bust. We went to dinner, had zilch in common, and haven’t talked since. I only went because my sister had set it up without asking, and I would’ve felt bad, saying no. I’d rather have my ear bitten off Mike Tyson–style than hit the dating scene again. Technically, I’ve never hit the dating scene. My first serious relationship was hidden.
The sucky thing about a secret relationship?
