Page 53 of Let Me
I turn to leave them to it when I realize I recognize the girl.
Riley Larson.
Riley fucking Larson.
She doesn’t even go to parties. Like, ever. I think she’s got, like, two friends.
What the fuck is she doing here?
I run my hand over my mouth, these two still oblivious to my presence with the pounding, piss-poor quality music downstairs. I try to convince myself to turn around and go. I’ll shoot Benji a text, lock up tight at home, and go to sleep.
Besides, Riley dumped my brother last weekend after he came home from a university tour. I haven’t been home since I heard that news because, quite frankly, I don’t want to deal with his tears. And Mom said there were, in fact, tears.
I also didn’t want to deal with something else.
Not seeing her there.
I don’t know why she broke it off with him. Well, I do. Because he was a controlling, possessive asshole and she deserved better, but I’m not sure what made her realize it.
Maybe this dude that she’s crawling down the bed for?
I should go.
This is her business.
She doesn’t owe me anything.
The guy is enjoying the show—who wouldn’t be—and she seems to be enjoying giving it to him. I’ve stepped between her and a guy—my brother—far too many times. She doesn’t need me.
I’m too old for this shit.
I turn to go.
She starts to unbutton his jeans.
And even though I know she’s been fucking my brother, even though I’ve seen his tongue down her throat far too many times...well, it doesn’t stop the jealousy coiling in my gut.
Hell, it never stopped it then, either.
I take a step toward the bedroom, the floor creaking under foot. She glances my way. Her fingers are poised over the dude’s jeans and his obvious hard-on.
She meets my gaze. And freezes.
“Hey, what’re you doing, Princess?” And then the guy reaches down and slaps her ass.
I watch it bounce, see his red handprint forming across it.
I really didn’t want to do this.
I go into the room and stare down at him. “Shut the fuck up.” Then I look to Riley, whose green eyes are lined with red and I know that look. It isn’t from crying. It’s from drinking.
“Let’s go.”
She sits back on her heels, and I try to keep my eyes on her face.
“Where are your clothes?” I ask her.
“Hey, man, this is my girl—”
