Page 8 of The Masks We Wear

“Of course.”

He waves me off, grabbing his helmet from the couch, and spares the game one last look before disappearing out the front door, leaving an empty void in the room.

Amora sighs, pushing her food around the crinkled yellow paper before turning back to me, her piercing blue eyes narrowing. “Why are you doing this again? I mean, don’t get me wrong, this is going to be funny as hell, but why him?”

I roll my eyes, the lie slipping from my tongue as effortlessly as breathing. “I don’t want to do the project. My plate is full already. A little blackmail, and I think he’ll have no problem doing the whole thing.”

Any sane, rational person would know how full of shit I am, but not Amora. She’s so hell-bent on being a classic mean girl that she’ll look past any reasoning just for the fun of it.

Blaze, on the other hand, saw through me the second I told them. I think it’s those damn eyes of his. I swear they give him x-ray powers. Thankfully though, he didn’t berate me with questions. Either because he doesn’t care or knows the pain of hiding secrets through any means necessary.

She scrolls on her phone a few more minutes, flipping her bright yellow strands over her tan shoulder. “Alright, everything’s a go. I’m going to go change, grab some liquor, and be back in an hour.”

I nod but don’t look at her. Instead, I focus my gaze on the house behind mine. The lights in the far right room flicker to life and something inside me darkens. It crawls around my heart, squeezing the organ, making it harder to breathe.

After tonight, those lights will haunt me, and rightfully so.

A few hours later and music hums through my body, coating each nerve with its infectious melody, forcing my hips to move. I’ve had a few drinks, but Blaze made them, so they weren’t too strong. Even still, liquid courage courses through me with the quick beat, matching my heart’s pulse.

About a dozen people are here already, but most of them are in my living room, engrossed with the football game playing on the television. I look at the clock. Five till ten. He should be here any minute.

I adjust the tight black dress stuck to my clammy skin. I’m not sure why my stomach is in knots. I’m not nervous, at least I don’t think. Maybe it’s guilt, creeping into the small sober part of my consciousness, begging me to rethink my plan.

Grabbing the red Solo cup from Blaze that I know is water, I suck the cool liquid from the ice, reveling in the shiver that reverberates down my spine. I hand it back just as the doorbell rings.

Everyone else knows that when I have my parties, you walk in, so it must be him.

My stomach hollows out, making way for the hundreds of tiny butterflies swirling around inside, colliding with the Hennessy sprinkling down on them. The closer I get to the door, the more frantic they become, and my heart picks up speed, hammering into my chest.

Don’t do this.

I ignore the thought—I don’t have a choice.

Taking a deep breath, I reach for the cold metal knob, twisting it too slow before opening the door.

Spencer stands on the other side of the threshold—his white shirt clinging to the body I knew he was hiding under his flannel. His corded arms grip a journal at his side, while the gray sweatpants he’s wearing leave nothing to the imagination.

My core tenses involuntarily, and I force my eyes back up to his. His face is unreadable as his chocolate orbs scan the scene behind me. “Busy?”

His voice is deep, husky, and travels straight to my pussy, my thighs clenching around the ache.

What the fuck is wrong with me? Focus, bitch.

I clear my throat, opening the door a little wider. “It’s fine. We’re going to be working upstairs anyway.”

He hesitates, his eyes narrowing as unasked questions flit across them. I don’t want to make it obvious I need him inside, so I wait, leaning against the door frame. After a few more seconds, I raise an eyebrow as if annoyed and check an invisible watch on my wrist.

“I don’t have all night, Einstein. Are we working or not?” I try to keep my voice light, playful even, in hopes he doesn’t decide to go home. My heart accelerates, and I wonder for a second if he can hear it crashing into my sternum.

Finally, he sighs and steps inside.

I turn around, hurrying for the stairs on the right, but my pulse doesn’t calm.

His agreement to come in is his signature to our end. The last formality needed to sever our lingering ties.

This is supposed to be a good thing—what I need—the quick death of something that shouldn’t be alive. But the weight in my steps plant the seeds of doubt—the what-ifs and the maybes.

I shake my head, straightening my spine, as I rid the wayward thoughts and lead Spencer to the banister. Luckily, only Amora notices us drift up the stairs. She shoots me a wink, turning back to her latest boy-toy she’s entertaining with her tongue.

---