The Chase Read online

  “Honey, we’re home!” Hollis shouts.

  Laughter echoes from upstairs.

  My pulse speeds up when her footsteps approach the landing. She appears at the railing in fleece pants and a Briar sweatshirt, her hair up in a messy twist.

  Hollis’ eyes glaze over. There’s nothing indecent about Summer’s outfit, but this girl could make a burlap sack look sexy.

  “Hey. Welcome home!” she says cheerfully.

  “Hey,” I call up to her. My voice sounds strained.

  Hunter shrugs out of his coat and tosses it on the hook. “Blondie,” he drawls. “Glad you’re here.”

  Hollis nods. “For real.”

  “Aw, thanks. I’m glad to be here.”

  “Hold on. You need a proper hello.” Grinning, Hunter bounds up the stairs.

  Her cheeks go a little pink as he draws her into his arms for a hug.

  I wrench my gaze away and pretend to be really focused with the task of hanging up my jacket. I don’t know if he kisses her or not, but Summer is still blushing when I force myself to turn back.

  “Gonna get changed,” Hunter says.

  He ducks into his room, and Hollis wanders off to the kitchen. Which means Summer and I are alone when I reach the second-floor landing.

  She watches me warily. “Did you guys have a good time?”

  I nod.

  “Cool.” She edges toward her open bedroom door.

  I peer past her slender shoulder and spot a perfectly made bed with a white duvet and about a hundred throw pillows. There’s a neon-pink beanbag chair on the floor, along with a shaggy white rug. An open laptop sits on a small corner desk that wasn’t there when Dean inhabited the room.

  She’s made herself at home.

  This is her home, a voice reminds me.

  “Thanks for letting me—” She corrects herself. “—for agreeing to have me as a roommate.”

  I shrug. “No prob. We needed a fourth.”

  She’s still inching away, as if she doesn’t want to be near me. I wonder if she’s remembering how she practically threw herself at me on New Year’s Eve and then ended up playing tonsil hockey with my teammate.

  Not that I’m bitter or anything.

  “Anyway…” She trails off.

  “Yeah. I…” I start traveling backward too. “I’m gonna grab a shower. We got one last run in—ah, round of Monopoly,” I amend, “before we left and I’m all sweaty.”

  Summer raises her eyebrows. “I didn’t realize Monopoly was so strenuous.”

  Hunter snickers from his doorway.

  I turn to glare at him, because he’s the one who came up with the Monopoly alibi in the first place, but he’s not there. He’s moved past the doorway as he shrugs into a shirt.

  “Board games are intense,” I answer lamely. “At least the way we play ‘em.”

  “Interesting. I can’t wait for roomie game night, then.” Her shoulder bumps the door as her backward journey ends. “Enjoy your shower, Fitz.”

  She disappears into her bedroom, and I lumber into mine. When my phone buzzes, I almost fall over with relief. I need the distraction before I start thinking too hard about how fucking awkward that whole encounter was.

  The text on the screen makes me grin.

  Still stuck at the 3rd gate! I fckn hate u, bro.

  Rather than text back, I call my buddy. Morris is a fellow gamer, a good friend, and currently demo’ing the role-playing game I spent the past two years designing.

  “Yo!” Morris answers immediately. “How do I get into the City of Steel, dammit?”

  I snicker. “Like I’m going to tell you.”

  “But I’ve been stuck here since last night.”

  “I literally sent you the link last night. The fact that you’ve already made it to the city is wicked impressive.” I shake my head. “I haven’t checked the message boards today, but last I saw, none of the other betas were even close to passing the village level.”

  “Well, yeah. That’s because I’m superior to them in every way. I’m the only one whose opinion matters.”

  “And your opinion so far?”

  “This game is boss.”

  Excitement gathers inside me. I love hearing that, especially from a dedicated gamer like Morris, whose Twitch stream earns him a shit ton of money. Yup, people actually subscribe to watch him play video games online. He’s that good, not to mention incredibly entertaining as he livestreams his virtual adventures.

  Not to toot my own horn, but I’m a bit of a legend too. Not from livestreaming, but reviewing. Up until this year, I reviewed games for the college blog, as well as other hugely popular gaming sites on the web. But I stopped reviewing because it was a time suck, and I needed to concentrate on my own game.

  Legion 48 isn’t the most complex of RPGs; it’s not multiplayer and it follows a very scripted storyline rather than an open-world concept. With my schedule, it’s hard enough to find time to play video games, let alone design them. But I’m in the process of applying for jobs at several game-development companies, and I needed to give them a taste of what I’m capable of in terms of design techniques. Legion 48 might not be Skyrim or GTA, but all I need it to do is show these studios I’m not a total hack.

  My greatest strength, I think, is that I did all the artwork myself along with the computer coding required to make the game functional. All of the art started out as rough sketches, was then drawn digitally, then turned into 3D assets. I can’t even calculate how much time I spent on it, and that was nowhere close to how long it took to code the damn thing.

  “Run into any bugs yet?” I ask Morris.

  “Nothing major. When you speak to the dragon in the cave, the dialogue freezes up and then jumps to the next bit.”

  All right. Easy fix. A relief, because it took hours upon hours to refine and hammer out all the pesky bugs in the alpha stage. For nearly a year, the game was barely playable. The first round of beta testing shed light on more bugs I’d missed. Somehow, despite my grueling schedule, I debugged the game enough to make it fully functional and ready for this second and final round of beta testing. This time, dozens of gamers are playing, including many of my college friends.

  “Hasn’t crashed yet,” he adds helpfully.

  “Yet? Don’t jinx it, man. I’ve sent this thing to half a dozen studios. If it crashes on them…”

  “Hasn’t crashed, period,” Morris corrects. “Won’t crash, ever. Now tell me how to open the third gate.”

  “Nope.”

  “But I’m dying to see the City of Steel. Is there an oracle I’m supposed to talk to? Why can’t I find this key?”

  “Guess you’re not as good as you think you are.”

  “Oh, fuck off. Fine. Whatever. I’m gonna beat this thing and then call you to gloat.”

  “You do that.” I grin to myself. “I’ll find you online later. Jumping in the shower now.”

  “Cool. Ciao.”

  I strip out of my clothes and head for the bathroom, a spring to my step. Morris’s enthusiasm for Legion 48 managed to ease the tension plaguing my body.

  But my muscles tense up again at the sound of Summer’s laughter in the hall.

  I gaze at my reflection in the mirror, noting the frustration in my eyes, the rigid set of my jaw. The harsh expression seems even harsher when paired with my tattoos—the two full sleeves covering my arms, and the chest piece that’s done only in black. The piece is a bit faded now, though that almost gives it a cooler vibe. Not that I got tatted up because it’s cool. I’m an artist. I designed all the tats myself, and whatever I can use as a canvas, I’ll use. Including my own skin.

  But when my face is surly, and my beard is growing out, and I’m brooding in front of the mirror, all the ink just makes me look like a thug.

  If I’m being honest, “thug” is kind of what I was going for during my brief high school rebellion. I got my first tat—the dragon on my left arm—when I was hanging with the dudes whose go-to solution for solving p
roblems involved their fists. Or brass knuckles. Don’t get me wrong—they didn’t pressure me to get inked. They just knew of a parlor that tattooed minors without their parents’ permission. Because, truthfully, the first time was essentially a fuck-you to my folks. My sophomore art class had just put on an end-of-year exhibition, where Mom and Dad spent the whole time sniping at each other instead of supporting their kid. They walked right past my paintings, too busy arguing to notice my work.

  So fifteen-year-old Colin, badass that he was, decided, Fine. You guys are too busy fighting to appreciate my art, so I’ll put it right where you can see it.

  These days, I do view the tats as an extension of my art, but I can’t deny it didn’t start out that way.

  My shoulders tighten when I hear the low murmur of Hunter’s voice. Followed by another laugh from Summer.

  Guess he’s picking up right where he left off.

  8

  Summer

  That wasn’t too bad. I managed to exchange several cordial sentences with Fitz without smacking him in his dumb face. Gold star for me! Except then take away my gold star and replace it with three rotten bananas because of the way my vagina responded to that dumb face.

  It tingled.

  Stupid vagina.

  I hate that I still find him attractive after all the hurtful comments he made about me.

  A knock on the door spares me from what probably would’ve been a solid hour of overthinking. Hunter saunters into the room and throws his lean, muscular body onto my bed.

  “I need a nap.”

  My mouth quirks in a wry smile. “Sure, go ahead and make yourself at home.”

  “Aw, thanks, Blondie.” He winks, and proceeds to get even more comfortable by sprawling on his back and propping his arms behind his head.

  Um, two tickets to the gun show, please. His arms are incredible. He’s changed into a wife beater that shows off defined biceps and broad shoulders. And his sweatpants ride low enough on his hips that I can see the smooth, tanned stretch of man vee. It’s just as tantalizing as the gun show.

  Hunter is hot and he knows it. His lips curve when he notices me checking him out.

  Ugh, those lips. I still remember how they’d felt pressed against mine. He was a good kisser. Not too aggressive, not too eager, the perfect amount of tongue.

  I wonder how Fitzy kisses.

  Like a jerk, Summer, my inner Selena Gomez says firmly. He kisses like a jerk.

  Right. Because he’s a jerk.

  “Why are you in my room, Hunter?” I ask, leaning a hip against my desk.

  “Figured we should tackle the Big Talk right out of the gate.”

  I sigh ruefully. “Good idea.”

  “A’ight. Let’s do it.”

  I graciously gesture toward him. “Men first.”

  He snorts. “Coward.”

  Laughing, I hop up and sit on the desk. “Honestly? I don’t even know what to say. We made out. It wasn’t a big deal.”

  His dark eyes zero in on my bare legs, which are dangling over the edge of the desk. It’s obvious he likes what he sees, because his gaze turns molten. He reminds me a bit of Dean’s friend Logan, and not just because they look similar with their dark hair and hard bodies. Logan radiates sexual energy. I don’t know how to describe it, but there’s just something so raw and dirty about him. Hunter gives off that same vibe, and I can’t deny it affects me.

  But just because we find each other attractive doesn’t mean we have to do anything about it.

  “I know we texted a few times after that night, but I felt like there was more to talk about. You never really told me what it—” He stops abruptly.

  I wrinkle my forehead. “I never told you what?”

  He sits up and drags a hand over his scalp. He’s buzzed his hair since I last saw him, but it’s still long enough to rake his fingers through. “I was about to ask you what it meant.” He stares at me in horror. “I’ve become my worst nightmare.”

  I burst out laughing. “Oh, honey. It’s okay—lots of men try to find meaning in New Year’s kisses.” I give him a pointed look.

  He groans. “Don’t rub it in, Blondie.”

  “Sorry, I had to. You were so cocky that night, acting like any girl you kissed at midnight would demand to have your babies.” I stick out my tongue. “Well, who’s the one who wants to have my babies? You!”

  His shoulders shake with laughter.

  I slide off the desk. “Tables have turned,” I say in a singsong voice.

  Hunter gets to his feet. He’s taller than I remember, standing at well over six feet. Same with Fitz, but I suppose most hockey players have the height advantage. There’s one guy on the Briar team who’s five-nine, though. I think his name is Wilkins. One time I heard Dean raving about how tough he is considering his size.

  “Don’t worry,” Hunter says. “I’m not thinking about babies just yet.”

  “No? What are you thinking about, then?”

  He doesn’t respond. Those dark eyes lower to my chest before flicking back to my face. I’m not wearing a bra. He definitely noticed.

  And I’m definitely noticing that his sweatpants seem a bit tighter in the crotch area than they were two minutes ago.

  When he notices me noticing, he coughs and angles his body slightly.

  A sigh flutters out of my throat. “You’re not going to make this weird, are you?”

  Two ridiculously adorable dimples cut into his chiseled cheeks. “Define weird.”

  “I don’t know. Be awkward? Tiptoe around me?”

  He takes another step toward me. “Does it look like I’m tiptoeing?” he drawls.

  My heart beats faster. Damn, he’s smooth. “Okay. Then are you going to get all lovesick? Write poetry about me and cook me breakfast?”

  “Poetry isn’t my style. And I can’t cook for shit.” He edges closer, until our faces are inches apart. “I’m happy to make you coffee in the morning, though.”

  “I don’t drink coffee,” I say smugly.

  His answering chuckle brings out his dimples again. “I can already tell you’re going to make this hard for me, eh?”

  “This?” I echo warily. “And what exactly is this?”

  He slants his head, contemplating for a beat. “I don’t know yet,” he admits. His breath tickles my ear as he leans in to murmur into it. “But I’m kind of excited to find out.”

  Hunter’s fingertips lightly graze my bare arm. Then, before I can blink, he’s sliding out the door.

  My new neighborhood is a vow-of-silence convent compared to the Kappa house at Brown. At one in the morning, the only sound beyond my bedroom window is the occasional cricket. No car engines, no music, no shrieky drunken sorority girls or loud-mouthed frat boys egging each other on during a rowdy game of beer pong.

  I have to admit, I find it unsettling. Silence is not my friend. Silence forces you to examine your own mind. To face the thoughts you pushed aside during the day or the worries you hoped would go away, the secrets you tried to keep.

  I’m not a fan of my own thoughts. They tend to be a jumble of insecurity, mixed with self-doubt, a splash of inner critic, and a sprinkling of misplaced over-confidence. It’s a fucked-up place, my mind.

  I roll over and groan into my pillow. The muffled noise is like a blast of gunfire in the eerily quiet room. I can’t sleep. I’ve been tossing and turning since eleven thirty and it’s really starting to tick me off. I slept just fine when the guys were in Vermont. I don’t get why their presence ought to change that.

  Trying to force sleep is pointless, so I kick the comforter off and stumble out of bed. Screw it. I’m getting something to eat. Maybe it’ll send me into a food coma afterward.

  Since I sleep in nothing but panties, I grab the first item of clothing I find. It happens to be a thin white T-shirt that shows the outline of my nipples and barely covers my thighs. I slip it on anyway, because I doubt my roomies will be awake to see it. Hunter said they have a six a.m. practice.

&
nbsp; But I’m wrong. One roomie is very much awake.

  Fitzy and I both release startled noises when our gazes collide in the kitchen.

  “Shit,” I curse. “You scared me.”

  “Sorry. And ditto.” He’s sitting at the table, long legs resting on the chair beside him, a sketchpad in his lap.

  Oh, and he’s shirtless.

  As in, not wearing a shirt.

  I can’t even.

  I wrestle my gaze off his bare chest, but it’s too late. Every detail has already been branded in my brain. The full-sleeve tats covering his arms. The black swirl of ink that stretches along his collarbone and stops just above his heavy pecs. His abs are so chiseled it looks like someone drew them on with a contouring brush. Like Hunter, he’s all muscle and no fat, but while Hunter’s chest triggered appreciation and some tingles, Fitz unleashes a flurry of shivers and a tight clench of need.

  I want to put my mouth on him. I want to trace every line and curve of his tats with my tongue. I want to grab his sketchpad and whip it aside so I could be the one in his lap. Preferably with my lips glued to his and my hand wrapped around his dick.

  God help me.

  I don’t get it. He’s not my usual type at all. I’ve been surrounded by prep school boys my whole life, and that’s what I’m typically drawn to—polo shirts, clean-shaven faces, and million-dollar smiles. Not tattoos and scruff.

  “Can’t sleep?” he says lightly.

  “No,” I admit. I open the fridge and scan the contents for something appetizing. “How about you?”

  “I should’ve turned in about an hour ago, but I wanted to finish this sketch before bed ‘cause I won’t have time to do it tomorrow.”

  I settle on some yogurt and granola, glancing over at Fitz as I prepare a bowl. “What are you drawing?”

  “Just something for a video game I’m working on.” He snaps the sketchbook closed, even though I wasn’t trying to sneak a peek at it.

  “Right. Dean mentioned you’re a gamer. I thought you just reviewed games, though. You design them too?”

  “Only one so far. Working on a second one now,” he says vaguely.