Page 49 of Night Shift

And oh. Oh no.

I told myself I could be a grown-up about this. I told myself I could have one night to stop being such a coward and have some fun. But here I am, getting immediately and inordinately attached to the first boy I’ve ever felt this way about. I want Vincent to do something completely disproportionate to the situation, like storm downstairs, cut the speakers, and send everyone else home. I wish he’d be a romance hero, even if that’s ridiculous.

Jabari Henderson pounds on the door again.

“Go,” I tell Vincent, giving him a little push—one last excuse to touch his chest.

The look he shoots me over his shoulder as he crosses his room is both agonized and apologetic. I hide next to the shower, out of sight, and listen to a long moment of silence before he unlocks his bedroom door and tugs it open.

“Took you long enough,” someone in the hall shouts.

“Sorry, sorry,” Vincent says apologetically. He’s a surprisingly good actor. “Couldn’t find my wallet. Jabari, you still have any tequila in your room?”

The answer is: “Oh, hell yeah.”

Vincent slips through the door, pulling it tight behind him. I listen for the telltale sound of fading footsteps and merriment as he shepherds his teammates down the hall.

I stand in Vincent’s bathroom, my back pressed to the wall, and stare at my reflection in the mirror. My hair is wrecked. My lipstick is gone. My face is flushed, and there are pink spots on my neck—not quite hickeys, but maybe they will be tomorrow. I hope they will be. I want concrete reminders of what we did. I want souvenirs, dammit.

Because otherwise, I might not believe this happened.

He brought me to orgasm. In the middle of his own birthday party.

For a moment, the giddiness cuts through my anxiety. I grin at my own reflection. But the longer I stare, the more my dazed smile falls and the more my stomach knots.

It was perfect. He was perfect. It was like something straight out of the best kind of romance novel, where the boy worships the girl and actually pays attention to what makes her feel good. There wasn’t a single moment when I didn’t like what Vincent was doing—and I don’t mind if he’s had tons of practice, because I’m not about to slut-shame anyone, but it’s hitting me that the whole encounter was fairly lopsided.

For fuck’s sake, he didn’t even come.

He gave, and he gave, and even when I pawed at his pants and demanded to see his dick, he seemed hesitant. And I know he wanted me. He said so. I saw the desire in his eyes, and I can’t think of another reason why a boy would look at a girl like that. But now that I’m alone in his bathroom, my hands shaking as I smooth down the front of my wrinkled bodysuit, I wonder how much of that was in my own head.

A knot forms in my throat.

I can’t explain it. I can’t put my finger on it.

I just feel like I’ve done something wrong.

• • •

Despite my best efforts, I can’t locate my underwear. I know I took it off, and I know I chucked it somewhere vaguely in the direction of the desk, but it’s nowhere to be found. Apparently, I’ve launched it into another dimension. I give up after a few minutes of searching and tug my jeans back on over my snapped-up bodysuit, blushing hard at the memory of Vincent’s face when I undressed.

This. I love this thing.

I huff and scrub my hands over my face. I just had the best orgasm of my life. I just did everything I’ve been wanting to do. I don’t know why I feel so off-kilter.

Legs still shaky from my orgasm, I pull open Vincent’s door and check both ways before I slip out into the hall, undetected, and stumble downstairs into the dining room. The crush of the crowd doesn’t help my anxiety. There’s no sign of Nina around the beer pong tables. I do a lap around the kitchen. I’m about to brave the living room when I hear the unmistakable sound of Nina calling out my name.

She’s in a little hallway off the kitchen, between a sliding glass door that leads to a back porch and a small door that must be a closet or a pantry. From here, I can see straight into the entry hall, where people are pouring up and down the stairs and in and out of the front door.

“Harper really wasn’t kidding about half the school coming,” I mutter.

“Where have you been?” Nina demands. Then she registers the sight of me, with my mussed hair and missing lipstick, and her eyes blow wide. “Oh my God. You didn’t.”

I try to smile. “I did.”

The grin that splits Nina’s face dissolves when the small door behind her clicks and swings open. It’s a laundry room. I catch sight of a double stack of washers and dryers before my eyes land on Harper, whose mascara is gone and whose eyes are pink and watery.

She’s been crying.

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