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“Rock, paper, scissors?”
Ashton’s suggestion, while juvenile, does the trick. Callum gets to do the honor of undressing Rodney. Once Callum takes Rodney’s jeans off, we see blood on his pants and underwear.
“I have an awful feeling about this,” Ashton moans, running his hands through his hair.
“Ashton, go to the third floor and check on Kennedy. Let’s make sure he didn’t do something he will regret in the morning.”
I rub my temples, falling into the empty chair at my desk. Callum sets a trash can on the floor next to the bed, just in case Rodney needs it. He takes the chair at Rodney’s desk and sits with his elbows on his knees, face in his hands.
“What do you think happened tonight, Gareth?”
“I have a suspicion and hope that I am wrong.” Shaking my head, apprehension laces my words.
CHAPTERTWENTY-FIVE
My head is spinning with the events of the evening. As hard as I tried, sleep wouldn’t come. Grabbing my earbuds, a new audiobook starts in an effort to lose myself in a world that doesn’t exist.
I must have dozed off because a constant banging on the door wakes me. Pulling the earbuds out and setting them and my phone on my desk, I walk to the door. Reaching out to grasp the knob, a deep voice calls out.
“Duchess, open the fucking door… Now!”
I drop my hand and take several steps back from the door. The pounding on the door starts up again. Checking the time and resigning myself to the fact that whichever one of the guys this is—he isn’t going away anytime soon. I open the door just enough to see who is there, hiding the rest of my body behind the door. Ashton is standing in the hall with a possible look of concern.
“What?” I bark out.
“Let me in.” It’s not a question.
My voice is full of venom. “You are not coming in. What do you want?”
Ashton pushes the door open, forcing his way into my room. It takes everything I have not to fall on my ass. Ashton helps catch me while closing the door. As soon as he lets me go, I turn to face him, hands on my hips.
“What do you want, Ashton?”
“You left the football game.” It’s a statement, not a question.
“I did.”
“Why?”
“What difference does it make?” I ask defensively. If he is here, it’s safe to assume that Rodney is too drunk to answer any questions.
“I need to know why you left.”
Letting out a long sigh, I know that Ashton will not leave until I give him more information. Flopping down on my bed with my arms crossed over my chest, my words are sharp.
“Fine… I wasn’t feeling well. Alright?” Hopefully, that is vague enough for him to accept but not push for more answers.
“What is wrong? I need more information than you weren’t feeling well.”
“I don’t understand why it is such a big deal. Why do you think it is your business? I wasn’t feeling well, so I left. End of the story.” Trying to keep my voice even so that Ashton doesn’t pick up on my emotions is a challenge.
Ashton sits down on Calista’s bed, directly across from me, mirroring my pose.
“Alright, you don’t want to tell me your story. Let me tell you one of my own.”
His tone is subdued. His body, on the other hand, is strung tight.
“You got up in the second quarter of the game. Almost immediately after, Rodney—who was drunk—left as well. Rodney only made it back to his seat in the fourth quarter. I don’t remember you returning to your seat, though. The added little bit of this is that the front of Rodney’s jeans and underwear had blood on them.”
