Page 106 of Vegas Heat

I glance at the spot where Cooper stood a few minutes ago, and he’s gone. I grab Justin’s arm and squeeze it as we head toward his Jeep. “You don’t have to lie to them for me.”

“I didn’t lie. Wearecozy. They can interpret that however they want.” He shrugs as he unlocks the doors and walks me to the passenger side. I hop in, and then he moves around to the driver’s side and slides in behind the wheel.

“You’re a good friend to me,” I say softly.

“I feel like we have a lot in common. We’re both lying to our parents. We’re both unhappy. We’re both at a crossroads. It’s natural we’d gravitate toward each other.” He pulls up some rap song for the ride home, and I wrinkle my nose.

“What is this?” I ask.

“Bad Bunny,” he says.

“I’ve never heard of him.”

“He’s a Puerto Rican rapper.”

“I’m not into rap music,” I admit.

His hand flies to his chest. “What?” he asks, clearly horrified by my admission. “I’m not sure we can still be friends. What do you listen to?”

“Taylor Swift.” I shrug.

“Like…exclusively?” he asks, surprised.

I nod.

He laughs, and then he changes the song to something off her newest album. “Me too. I just put the rap on to make myself seem cool since it’s the thing.”

“Taylor makes you way cooler.” I lean over to bump his shoulder with mine, and we head toward home.

I let us in through the front door once we’re home, and it’s quiet. Dad’s car wasn’t out front, so he might not be home, and neither was Cooper’s—but he was waiting for a ride from the bar. I’m not sure where he was headed.

We collapse together on the couch and put on some Netflix, and I must fall asleep on Justin’s shoulder because some loud banging in the kitchen startles me awake.

“What the hell is that?” I ask.

“I think it’s Cooper,” Justin whispers. “He passed by a few minutes ago. Didn’t say a word to me when he walked by but I’m thinking he’s making something for dinner.”

I listen a little more closely and recognize the sound of pots and pans banging together—the kind of noise like he’s trying toget to the pan on the bottom of the drawer and everything else is stacked on top of it. And then the loud clatter of a plate being set onto the counter with a bit of aggression, along with some silverware.

The fridge door slamming shut.

The pantry door opening and closing.

The icemaker dispensing ice. And more ice. And still more—one of the loudest sounds in the entire kitchen.

The sound of liquid being poured into a glass and a glass bottle slamming down beside it onto the countertop.

He’s stomping around the kitchen in a huff, and I feel a little guilty that he’s probably extra huffy because he spotted me with my head on Justin’s shoulder as I lay sleeping and my friend watched a movie.

It’s complicated, this whole thing. I don’t want him to feel hurt, and yet…he’s the one causing the hurt. I guess I don’t need to mislead him where Justin is concerned, but part of me feels good, like I’m getting revenge for him ending it when it’s not what I want at all.

The other part of me feels like I should be honest with him, but every time we try to talk we just start yelling. Or he grabs me and pulls me into his arms, and I think he might change his mind, and then he doesn’t.

The movie ends, and Justin heads out. I stand by the door for a beat as I debate going into the kitchen where I know he is or going upstairs to my room.

Upstairs is safer. Besides, I don’t know if my dad’s somewhere here at home, and I don’t want him walking into the kitchen when we’re inevitably yelling at each other.

I’m about to walk into my bedroom when I feel a hand on my arm pulling me back out into the hallway. I’m slammed up against the wall, pinned there by his hips, and a thrill rushes up my spine.

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