Page 42 of Like a Power Play
Darcy
Isn’t alcohol supposed to make you hot? I mean sure, it’s October, and yeah, it’s raining. But the volume of vodka in my veins should be enough to keep me warm. Still, goosebumps flood my skin as the icy breeze blows past, sweeping my hair away from my face. City lights blur around me, and I can’t quite tell where I am right now, but I don’t care. I just keep walking, boots thudding against the pavement, dissonant to the rhythm of Peyton’s. Her shorter legs move quicker, taking nearly double the steps to keep up with me. She doesn’t make a fuss about it, just moves beside me as I force out a breath, the pounding in my chest long eased since we left.
I thought I could handle it—get out, mingle like Cleo suggested. One drink to calm my nerves, another to loosen up. After the third, I realized it wasn’t in my prophecy. I wasn’t becoming more social. I was just getting sloppy and honestly, a little sad. So I slipped away from Cleo and her friends, tellingthem I’d be back, only to find myself hyperventilating in a bedroom that, to my surprise, turned out to be Peyton’s.
I just needed a moment. A break from it all.
The noise, the bodies. The flashing lights and polite greetings from strangers who clearly couldn’t tell I wanted to be left alone. Girls offering shots, guys making their moves, all of it felt like too much. Too loud. Too friendly. I’d known it going in: I wasn’t ready for any of it.
I guess I’d hoped that pretending would be enough.
Peyton’s face glows in the streetlights, green streaks of color smearing on her cheeks as rain softly rolls down them. She’s still wearing that ridiculous blue mask, and I would make fun of her for it if I wasn’t so damn hesitant to break the silence we’ve had for the past fifteen minutes. She hasn’t asked why I wanted to leave. I haven’t asked why she cared enough to come with me.
And both of us seem to be ignoring the fact that it’s happening altogether.
Another breeze hits, creeping beneath my layers. I know it’s cold enough to make Peyton shiver, and sure enough, she pulls her arms tighter inside her sleeves, the cardboard shell on her back doing nothing to shield her. She shudders, and I feel this strange pinching in my chest.
It’s dumb. She’s the one who forgot a jacket. But then, maybe, she was too busy making sure I had one to think about herself.
Huh. Peyton Clarke actually put someone else first. Well, that’s a shocker.
I spend the next few minutes debating asking her if she’d like to turn around. Or, at the very least, if she wants her sweatshirt back. Not that I mind wearing it. It’s a little short, a little tight around the armpits, sure, but I like the way it smells. Like lavender and the faintest hint of salt. I’m blaming the enjoyment of that on my blood alcohol content.
The soothing patter of the rain picks up, and she weaves in front of me, guiding me underneath an overhang to avoid the drops. Just as we step under, a loud melody springs from her back pocket, causing her to come to a sudden halt. I nearly ram into her, tipping back as I dig my heels into the ground to avoid a collision. She spins to face me, but reaches for her phone first, brows furrowing as the blue light from the screen illuminates her whiskey-colored eyes. After declining the call, her gaze catches mine, but that valley stays etched between her brows.
“Why’d you come to our party?”
Peyton’s tone is soft. Nothing lies beneath it but pure, innocent confusion, those glowing amber eyes smoothing into something gentler. Something warm enough to wash my goosebumps away. I steady myself against the brick wall.
“To be fair,” I hiccup, “Cleo withheld that information from me.”
Peyton forces a smile, letting out a soft “Oh” before spinning back around, and taking a few more steps. The moment I begin to follow, she stops again.
“Would you have come if she didn’t?” she asks. I’m hardly polite when I’m sober, so being intoxicated, I don’t even pretend to consider it.
“Probably not.”
She nods again, then keeps walking. The shell bounces against her back as she moves, and a soft sigh slips from her throat.
“I’m sorry.” The words spill out of her, but her feet don’t slow down. Mine nearly stop in their tracks, but I force them to keep moving. “For being a dick at practice the other day. And… the days before. I know it’s your job to give me feedback, and I just got—I got insecure. I don’t think I’ve ever had someone tell me I was doing something wrong before.”
Fuck.We’re doing this now? Couldn’t she have brought it up on Saturday? Or at the next practice? Or…never?
I don’t respond right away. Part of me is still processing what she said, while the other half of my brain is trying to figure out if it’s some kind of trap. And no, I don’t have a clear idea of how this trap would work, but if I weren’t drunk, I’d see the pattern.
I’m sure of it.
I take a deep breath, short clips of that conversation flashing through my mind. How angry she looked. How I made it worse. How I could feel her breath against my lips, warm and frustrated.
Heat spills across my body, a pulse growing between my thighs, and I force words, any words, to come out of my mouth, so she doesn’t spin around and see the unwarranted burn in my cheeks.
“It’s all good,” I say quickly, nearly stumbling behind her.
“No it’s no—”
“Really, I get it. I probably could have gone about it in a better way myself.”
Peyton laughs softly, and I can’t see her face, but her shoulders seem to loosen a bit. “Yeah…”
