Page 54 of Trapped and Tackled

I place a hand on his chest, feeling his abdomen tighten, muscles clenching, below my fingertips. Damn but is he distracting in the best way possible. “It’s okay. I’ll be right back.”

Talon’s jaw clenches, but he nods. “If you don’t come back in a few, I’ll find you.”

I nod, a thrill shooting down my spine at his protectiveness. After months of fearing my boyfriend’s anger, it’s nice to spend time with a man who is intent on keeping me safe. “I’ll be fine.”

I move toward the house, weaving through throngs of people on the deck, and push through the back door.

“Jesus,” I mutter, taking in the mess that exploded in the kitchen. Various liquor bottles line the counters, caps missing. A stack of Solo cups has tipped over, rolling around the countertops and floor. Pizza boxes are stacked on the island, a few pepperoni slices and crusts discarded beside them. Pools of sticky, sugary substances gather in puddles. I step over a spot on the floor, frowning as I can’t discern the type of liquid. It smells rank—like stale beer with an undercurrent of vomit and I cover my nose, gagging into my palm.

“Are you okay?” I ask a woman who stumbles and sways.

She grins at me, her pupils blown.

“I got her,” a guy says.

I narrow my eyes at him.

“Kevin! I love you!” she declares, throwing her arms around his neck.

He stumbles as she melts against him but a moment later, he hoists her into his arms. “You need water, Mel,” he mutters, moving her onto the deck outside.

Shaking my head, I venture deeper into the house, keeping an eye out for Marlowe. The nautical-themed space, carefully decorated by Toby’s mother years ago, when we were in high school, is now dated but clean. Cared for. After this weekend, it looks like a frat party gone wrong and something about it bothers me.

Toby and his friends aren’t nineteen-year-old punks anymore, trying to pull one over on his parents without knowing their limits. They’re adults—college graduates who should know better. Who should have more respect. Especially Toby considering this is his parents’ place and they don’t need to let him use it to host parties.

Rolling my eyes, I bend to pick up a handful of empty beer bottles and place them on the coffee table. Knowing Toby, he’ll blame Marlowe, and she’ll incur his parents’ disappointment instead of him.

“I want to leave,” Marlowe’s voice rings out.

I turn instantly, heading in the direction of her distress.

Down a narrow hallway, past a bedroom and a bathroom, I push into the second bedroom unannounced.

Marlowe’s eyes swing to mine. In front of her, her cousin Keller stands, a hand on her elbow. Marlowe’s eyes are ringed in red and puffy from crying. Keller looks devastated and tosses an arm around her shoulders, his eyes snapping to mine.

When he sees it’s me, he relaxes. “Close the door.” He motions toward the door I left ajar, and I nudge it shut.

“Mar, are you okay?” I keep my voice light.

Marlowe looks gutted, like the entire Earth shifted under her feet and she’s lost her balance. She lets out a shaky sigh, her knees buckling from whatever she’s mentally processing.

Keller shifts forward, catching her before she hits the floor and settling her on the edge of the bed.

“What’s going on?” I ask, perching next to her. I wrap an arm around her shoulders, and she leans into me. The second her forehead hits my arm, tears wrack her body. Her upper body trembles form the ferocity of her sobs, but no sounds escape her lips.

“What the hell happened?” My tone is sharp as I wrap my best friend in a tight hug. I look to Keller for answers.

“Jesus,” he murmurs, closing his eyes as he hangs his head and grips the back of his neck. When he opens his eyes, they’re layered in sadness and shame. “Marlowe,” he murmurs, as if waiting for her to clue him in as to what to do, what to say, next.

Marlowe sniffles, sucking in gulps of oxygen. “Tell her. You can tell her.” Her voice cracks and she tucks her hair behind her ear. Her cheeks are bright red, but there’s a resoluteness in her eyes that wasn’t there before.

Keller works a swallow.

“Toby was right. My dad, Rick”—there’s an edge to her voice now—“isn’t my real dad.”

I gasp. “What? How do you?—?”

The bedroom door snaps open and Toby shadows the doorframe. He glowers, his expression unreadable, his pupils blown. “What the fuck is going on here?” he slurs.

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