Page 8 of Price of Victory
Lumière was exactly what I’d expected from a campus bar—dimly lit, sticky floors, music just loud enough to make conversation require some effort. The kind of place where college students came to pretend they were sophisticated while drinking beer that tasted like it had been filtered through old socks.
The team had claimed a large table near the back, and I slid into the booth across from where Rhett was sitting with Lennox. He was trying very hard to ignore me, focusing on his conversation with his roommate like it was the most fascinating thing he’d ever heard.
But I caught him looking. Quick glances when he thought I wasn’t paying attention, his eyes tracking my movements when I got up to use the bathroom or my gestures while telling a story to the freshmen. He was trying to be subtle about it, but subtlety had never been Rhett’s strong suit.
After about an hour, I watched him get up and head to the bar, presumably to get another round for himself and Lennox. Perfect. I drained about three-quarters of my beer in one go and followed him, leaving just enough in the glass to provide cover for my approach.
He was waiting for the bartender’s attention when I sidled up next to him, close enough that he’d have to acknowledge my presence.
“Noticed you noticing me,” I said, letting just enough cockiness creep into my voice to get under his skin.
Rhett snorted, a sound that was equal parts derision and disbelief. “In your dreams, Whitmore.”
“In the locker room,” I clarified, because there was no point in being coy about it. We both knew exactly what I was talking about.
“Then you failed to notice me pouring bleach into my eyes afterward,” he shot back, but there was color rising in his cheeks that suggested the memory wasn’t entirely unpleasant for him. And it definitely wasn’t bleached out of his mind.
I leaned against the bar, making myself comfortable. “If you want to see it again, you just have to ask. You don’t need to be sneaky about it.”
Rhett spun around to face me, and I could see the barely controlled anger radiating off him in waves. His brown eyes were dark with something that might have been fury or might have been something else entirely.
“You have no shame,” he said, and it sounded like an accusation.
“That makes everything so much easier,” I agreed, tilting my head to study his face. “It means I don’t need to tiptoe around the things I want.”
“Why are you stalking me to the bar?”
“To get a drink,” I said, gesturing vaguely toward the bartender, who was still working on someone else’s order.
Rhett pointed at the beer in my hand. “You have one.”
I made a show of draining the rest of it in one long swallow, then set the empty glass on the bar with a soft clink. “Now I need another one. Simple math, Morrison.”
He was grinding his teeth so hard I was surprised they didn’t crack. “You’re unbelievable.”
“You’re lame,” I countered. “You should learn to have some fun.”
“If by fun, you mean sending dick pics in the first message, I’ll pass.”
The words hit me across the face, and I felt my carefully maintained composure slip for just a moment. That was a low blow, bringing up something that had been thoroughly embarrassing and completely blown out of proportion.
“That was private,” I said, unable to keep the annoyance out of my voice. “And I never made it public, you little shit. But maybe that’s why you aren’t asking me to show you my dick in person. You’ve got an old copy ofZing!to leaf through.” I forced a chuckle, trying to play it off like the memory didn’t still sting. Because it did. The whole thing had been a fucking nightmare,spun and weaved by a media machine that fed on scandal and humiliation.
For just an instant, Rhett’s features softened, and I saw something that might have been sympathy flash across his face. “I had nothing to do with that.”
“Who ownsZing!?” I asked, because we both knew the answer.
“It’s your fault for trying to hook up with our journalist,” Rhett said defensively, but the fire had gone out of his voice.
“Your journalist, who was on a hookup app looking for exactly what I was offering,” I shot back. “Don’t act like I corrupted some innocent lamb. He knew what he was doing.”
“Right up until he decided selling your photos was more profitable than sleeping with you.”
The bartender finally made his way over to us, and Rhett ordered two beers with the practiced efficiency that came from being a regular. I ordered a whiskey, neat, because I needed something stronger than beer to wash the taste of this conversation out of my mouth.
“You really think this is all some master plan, don’t you?” I said while we waited. “Like I transferred here specifically to make your life difficult.”
“Didn’t you?”
