Page 74 of Enticing the Enforcer
Ingrid
It’slike the moment I left the bubble of Wittmore and Jefferson’s arms, I jumped straight into the fire. No more slow paced college town with their greasy bars with cheap drinks and quiet campus. I travel straight to New York and into the final leg of the tour.
There’s no hiding now, not from the interviews, the media blitz, the endless headlines about ticket sales and broken records. They keep calling it the biggest tour of all time, the kind of event people will talk about for years.
I do my part. Teasing the surprise guests, hinting at a few legendary collabs. Every day, another celebrity posts about how they managed to score tickets, how they “wouldn’t miss it for the world.” It’s dizzying, and if I’m being honest, I’m back in my limelight. The place where I shine.
Madison did her magic, getting the photographer that Jefferson pushed to back down, quelling the press with other, juicy teasers about the show that manages to distract them.
And then there’s Jefferson.
He’s caught in his own whirlwind–the rush of graduation week. Apparently, there are long-standing Wittmore traditions. A final night where they pass the torch from one senior class to the next, where everyone is decked out in black and gold.
I see it all secondhand–on their feeds, in tagged stories. Skin shiny with sweat, beer bottles raised high, wide grins and loud chants. The smiles are big, but there’s a wistful edge too, like they know it’s the last time they’ll ever all be together like this.
It feels like something I’d write in a song.
I marvel at how Nadia looks effortless, the perfect shade of red lipstick flawless even at two in the morning. Twyler is in the middle of everything, tiny and wide-eyed, Reese always at her side. Even Shelby, who’s younger and not graduating, pops up in photos, squeezed between them like she belongs there too.
And the guys… I’ve learned a lot about the men Jefferson thinks of as brothers. Reese with his type-A intensity. They all look up to him. Axel, his tattoos and piercings less about rebellion and more about capturing every moment with joy. Reid has a quiet steadiness, his personality showing up in his clothes or music, just happy to be with his friends. And then there’s Jefferson, the center of it all, whether he tries to be or not.
“They look cozy,” Madison remarks, peering over my shoulder at one of the photos. We’re in the back of the SUV on the way from the hotel to the arena. She taps her nail against the screen where Jefferson has his arm slung over the back of a couch, a brunette tucked into the group next to him. “Who’s that?”
“That’s Craig’s girlfriend,” I remind her. “Remember, we met her in the bathroom at the Frozen Four victory party?”
“Oh, right. He’s, what do you call it, second string?”
“Second line.”
I’m not jealous of the girls, but there’s a sting knowing that they aren’t followed around by paparazzi or trailed by securityguards. With me gone, they can go out and live a normal life. And I can’t help but wonder if Jefferson feels freer without me there.
Still, I ask, “Why do you do that?”
“Do what?” she asks.
“Assume Jefferson’s doing something wrong?”
We’ve both done our best to pretend things between us are back to normal, but when she stirs up shit like this, it’s hard to play nice.
“I didn’t say anything,” she replies innocently.
“You didn’t have to. It’s obvious that you think that just because Jefferson is standing by another woman, something sketchy is going on.”
There’s a beat that stretches between us that is only filled with the sound of a bus rattling by.
“Fine,” Madison says, turning to face me. “I can ask you the same thing. Why do you always assume that a notorious campus player has changed his entire personality for you?”
The city blurs past the tinted windows of the SUV, yellow cabs weaving through traffic and neon signs flickering in the reflection on the glass. I tuck my knees closer, feeling the gentle bump of the car over the uneven streets, the hum of the engine under my thighs.
“He’s done nothing to make me not trust him.”
She rolls her eyes and mutters, “That you know of.”
It’s a loaded comment and I’m tired of the bullshit. “Receipts, Mads, or it’s time to shut up.”
She hesitates, leaning back into the leather seat as the SUV makes another slow turn down a crowded avenue. “Fine, Ing, you want to know who you’re really dating?”
“Enlighten me.”
