Page 2 of Not Made to Last

I release the breath I’d unknowingly been holding and attempt to refocus.

“Ohana?” Max calls from the back seat of the car. “What’s happening?”

Shit.

Shit shit shit.

At the sound of Max’s voice, the figure moves again, and when his face comes into view, my panic doubles.

Triples.

“Ohana?” Max again.

I keep my gaze on the confused gray eyes in front of me and, not knowing if I’m lying, say over my shoulder, my words aimed for Max, “It’s okay, buddy. Everything’s fine.”

It takes a moment for my victim to roll to his back, tilt his head up, then speak. “Drive much?” he croaks.

All the air rushes from my lungs at the sound of his voice. I used to spend hours imagining it, then, later, re-watching whatever clips I could find of him online. But I’d never heard it in person.

Until now.

Rhys.

Thank fuck I don’t whisper his name out loud like I do in my head.

Rhys. Rhys. Rhys.

As in Rhys Garrett—co-captain of the St. Luke’s basketball team and, of course, the most popular and powerful guy roaming that school. Or at least he was. From my understanding, he graduated a few weeks ago, and I… I know way more about him than I should. Especially considering he has absolutely no idea who I am.

Nervous energy crawls through my veins, and thoughts fly through my mind faster than I can catch them. It sucks that the one thought I latch on to is: please don’t sue me. “Are you okay?” I extend my hand, praying he’s well enough to take it. “I’m sorry.” Sorry that he came out of nowhere and got in my way.

Rhys accepts my offer, his large hand dwarfing mine as he slowly comes to a stand. I try my best to help him up, but with his towering height and nothing but muscle, I doubt I’m having much effect. Finally, he lets go of my hand and twists slightly at the waist, soothing his palm along his right hip. His low wince slices through the summer night air, and he states, “Yes.”

I look from his hip to his hand, hanging lazily at his side, then up the length of his body until my eyes meet his. “Yes?”

“Yes,” he repeats.

“Yes… you’re okay?”

“Ohana?” Max calls out again.

I glance over my shoulder, through my car’s windshield, and to the back seat, where Max’s face is lit up by his iPad. “One second,” I call out, then look back up at Rhys, my neck straining from our height difference—my 5’4” to his 6’3”, and… I catch myself there, at the absolute peak of pathetic.

Look.

It’s not as if I stalk the guy, but his height is listed on most websites that include his name, and it’s right there beside his weight and a line above his birthday. Which, if I’m not mistaken, was only a few days ago. He just turned nineteen. All information which is completely irrelevant to our current circumstance. “So, you’re good?” I ask.

“No, I’m not good.” He shakes his head, eyes unfocused as he looks down his nose at me. “So, yes, take me to the emergency room.” Without another word, he moves slowly to my car, a noticeable limp in his swagger, and all I can do is watch, frozen, wondering how the hell I got into this situation.

Because I offered to take him?

I didn’t mean it. Not really.

Rhys opens the front passenger door, illuminating the interior.

Illuminating Max.

I rush to get in the driver’s seat, my pulse racing, and glance from Rhys to Max and back again. My supposed “injured victim” sits carefree, legs kicked out, hands resting on his thighs. A slow smirk forms on his lips as his gaze switches between Max and me. Eyes the color of slate, he homes in on mine, his head tilting slightly. “You’re not from around here, are you?” he murmurs.

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