Page 5 of You Were Never Not Mine

“I couldn’t tell you.”

“Hair color?”

I squint as I try to conjure up her face and hair in my memory, but I come up with nothing. “Brown?”

Cyrus chuckles and swipes the glass right out of my hand, draining it in an instant, the motherfucker. “You’re guessing.”

A sigh leaves me. “I can’t remember a thing about her.”

Well, that’s a lie. I remember how she squealed when she pretended to come. Like I imagine a stuck pig sounds and it filled me with such disgust, my dick deflated like a balloon and I told her to shut the fuck up. Which she did of course, and then proceeded to give me an adequate blow job. I came on her face and told her to leave.

“You’re a callous asshole.” He hands me back my empty glass then rises to his feet, heading toward the cabinet where I keep my scotch stash.

“Tell me something we don’t know.” We’re in the sitting room at the back of the house and no one else is with us. They know when they see me sitting alone and glowering at everything that I want to be left alone, and they do exactly that. It’s a pleasant feeling, knowing you have so much power. But it’s also…

Lonely. Thank God for Cyrus.

“You need to find a cause.” He grabs a fresh glass for himself and fills it with a generous pour, doing the same for my glass. Within seconds we’re both sipping on the finest scotch that slides down my throat smoothly, Cyrus settling back on the couch next to me, his demeanor casual. Like he has all the time in the world and just wants to have a simple chat.

I call bullshit. More like I’m thrown by his approach and don’t quite know what he means by using the word cause, not that I’ll admit my confusion out loud.

“What the hell are you talking about?” My voice is gruff, my gaze going to the front of the house, which is currently filled to the absolute brim with people. None of them are familiar. Not even most of the guys, and I’m in the damn frat with them. No one interests me. No one matters, save for the man sitting next to me and my family. Everyone else can go to hell.

Why the hell am I here again? I should drop out. My parents wouldn’t care. Well, my mom might fret over it for a moment and my father will question my decision-making but otherwise, they won’t care. We have more money than we know what to do with. It’s been properly invested to carry us through multiple generations and maybe that’s part of the problem.

I’m fucking bored.

Oh I know, poor pitiful me. Rich boy singing the blues. It’s pathetic, I get it, but it’s true. I’m lonely. Bored. I need some excitement in my life, and I’m wondering if continuing with my education, even though I’m so close to graduating, is a mistake.

“You sit idle in class. Here in the house. During a party for the love of God. You don’t even drink to get drunk. It’s because you think this shit tastes good.” Cyrus takes a sip, making a disgusted face. “It’s horrible.”

“You have zero class, Thornhill.” He knows it, too. “It’s the finest scotch you can buy.”

“And it tastes like shit.” He swigs it down like a heathen, finishing it in one gulp while I watch him, my lip curling in faint disgust. “What the fuck do you even stand for, Lancaster?”

I jerk my gaze away from his, watching the front of the house once more, my gaze snagging on the door, which is currently opening. A group of girls enters the house, wearing matching expressions of wide-eyed wonderment as they look around. They all look painfully young and I’m about to blast Cyrus with a scathing response when my gaze snags on one of the girls in particular.

And lingers.

It’s the utter contempt that’s on her face that catches my attention. All of the other women surrounding her are practically bouncing, they’re so delighted to be here. Not her. She’s got her arms curled in front of her in pure defensive mode and they’re nestled just underneath her tits. They’re the perfect size—her tits—not too large and not too flat either. Her hair is arich, dark brown and flows just past her shoulders. I can’t tell what color her eyes are, but it doesn’t matter.

There’s something about her that feels almost…familiar. Is it because she appears as irritated as I feel? Perhaps. Or is it something else?

“You’re staring.” Cyrus states the obvious and all I can do is grunt, annoyed that he caught me. “Want me to go get her for you?”

That sounds fucking awful. Like I’m a god and I expect to be served the tastiest morsel in the house—and right now, that would be her. “No.”

“Oh, come on. It’s the first time I’ve seen your eyes spark like that in a while.”

“My eyes don’t spark.” I shake my head. Rattle the ice in my now empty glass. When did I finish that off anyway? “Spark. What the hell, Thornhill? You sound like you’re interested in me romantically.”

His laughter is a booming, pleasant sound, but I refuse to smile. That’ll only encourage him. “You wish, Lancaster. I could give a shit what you do—sexually—and apparently you feel the same considering how you can’t even remember who you fucked last night.”

“They’re all the same.” I can’t look away from her. They’re moving as a group deeper into the house, a bunch of my fraternity brothers approaching them. I would guess these women are freshmen. Babies. Probably not even worthy of the word women because they’re barely out of high school. I’m not interested.

Yet I am.

“Except for that one,” Cyrus observes.

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