Page 12 of Fault Line

Rai tilts his head. “A friend?”

“Teammate?” Lizzie makes a second attempt. “Kaia’s looking for a bed warmer herself.”

“Ah.” He swallows hard, visibly uncomfortable. “Well, I don’t really—”

“Ugh, not you, too,” I groan, exasperated by his hesitation. “What’s the damn problem with setting me up? I already knew Becker had a stick up his ass, but—”

A throat clears behind me, then, “You talkin’ about me again, Karras?”

With a heavy sigh, I slowly tilt my gaze. Holden’s standing at the back of the couch now, one hand clasped against Rai’s shoulder while the other slicks through his sandy hair. A long-sleeve black shirt and jeans combo replace his half-naked look from earlier.

If I’m being honest, it’s not exactly an upgrade.

“Why are you everywhere?” I ask through gritted teeth.

“Again, you’re in my house.” His lip quirks into a cocky grin. “Go on, then. You know I have a stick up my ass,but what?”

“But nothing.” I push myself off the couch, discreetly tugging my skirt back into place. At this point, my stockings have inched well below the hemline, and there’s little I can do about it. “If neither of you is willing to help me, then I’ll just have to help myself.”

With a nod of acknowledgment to Lizzie, I turn my back on the boys and wander alone into the crowd. The house is packed but nowhere near the level I’d originally assumed. Apparently, these hockey players take their exclusivity seriously.

It’s a wonder my roommate could secure us an invite, seeing as she doesn’t personally know any of the players.

Pushing through the living room, I make my way into the kitchen. There are two kegs near the sidewall, a cooler of chasers, a few handles of hard liquor, and a ten-gallon Gatorade dispenser—undoubtedly filled with jungle juice. I opt for a shot of cheap vodka from one of the unopened bottles on the counter.

To my displeasure, the taste is absolutely disgusting. It’s a syrupy strawberry flavor that barely masks the underlying hints of gasoline. A shudder racks through my body as I desperately search for something to wash it down with.

“I can make you a drink,” says an unfamiliar male voice.

With a wince, I glance up from where I’m kneeling at the cooler. There’s an exceptionally tall man standing at the entryway to the kitchen. He has dark hair, a golden-brown complexion, and a bit of a five-o’clock shadow. He’s a tad lanky for my taste, but he’s still quite handsome.

“How long have you been standing there?” I awkwardly ask.

“Long enough to see you gag on that Smirnoff.”

Soft laughter bubbles out of me. “Not one of my finer moments.”

“It’s okay.” He gives me a polite smile. “I would, too. But I could make you an actual drink if you’d like. Not to brag, but I’m quite the mixologist.”

“What’s your name?”

“Douglas. Yours?”

“Kaia.”

“Pretty.” His cheeks draw up into a grin. “So, what do you say? Do you want that drink?”

Oh, I think I kinda like this guy. Although we’ve barely interacted, I can already tell that he’s funny, sweet, and straightforward—a perfect combination of traits for a one-night stand.

“Would you want to dance instead?” I boldly ask. “I should probably cap myself at two drinks an hour.”

“Oh.” A tinge of red heat creeps up his neck. “I don’t really dance.”

Uncapping the water bottle I pulled from the cooler, I take a long, slow slip. Then with a shrug, I say, “Okay, your loss.”

“But I—I suppose I can make an exception.”

Smiling, I set my bottle down and thread our hands together, pulling him out of the kitchen and back into the room of partygoers. There’s an upbeat pop song blasting from the speakers. While we dance, his hands come to rest along the curve of my waist while mine wind carefully around his neck.

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