You're Not My Business.

Quinn

I perch on the edge of what I assume is Cade's couch—black, expensive-looking, and littered with enough hockey gear to outfit a small team. My copy of the Constitution sits open in my lap, the familiar weight of it grounding me in a space that feels hostile.

Article II, Section 1. The executive Power shall be vested in a President of the United States of America...

The words blur together as I steal a glance over the top of my book. Cade is sitting on a couch far away from him, now in some shorts. His hair—black with those ridiculous dark blue tips that add some sort of bad boy allure to him—falls messily across his forehead.

Everything about him screams trouble. The kind of trouble that gets good guys like my brother arrested or kicked off teams or worse.

The girl—whose name I still don't know and definitely don't care about—drapes herself across his back like a human scarf, her arms winding around his waist. She's saying something about his "type," her voice carrying that particular brand of cattiness that girls perfect in high school and never grow out of.

“I mean, she looks like she's about to sentence someone to twenty years," she giggles, not bothering to lower her voice.

My grip tightens on my book. Of course, she's talking about me. Of course, they're both getting entertainment out of my presence.

Heat flashes through me, anger, humiliation, and the urge to throw my book at them. I force myself to focus on the page, on the carefully structured words that make sense, unlike everything else in this house.

But when I look up again, they're kissing.

Not just kissing—devouring each other like they're putting on a show. His hands fist in her hair, her leg hooks around his hip, and they're going at it with the kind of desperate hunger that belongs in a bedroom, not three feet away from where I'm trying to read.

This is exactly what I mean. No boundaries, no consideration, no sense of appropriate behavior. Just pure, selfish indulgence.

I should look away. Should give them privacy. Should be the bigger person.

Instead, I watch with the horrified fascination. Is this what passes for romance in Cade West's world? This messy, public consumption?

His eyes snap open mid-kiss, locking onto mine with laser focus.

Caught.

I freeze, my cheeks burning with mortification, I shudder, but I can't break away from that dark stare. There's something predatory in it, something that makes my stomach flip despite every rational thought in my head screaming at me to look away.

He doesn't stop kissing her. If anything, he deepens it, his gaze never leaving mine.

Finally, he pulls away, leaving the girl panting and grasping at his shirt. She fumbles around the couch for her clothes—because apparently she just strips wherever she pleases—and pulls on a pair of denim shorts.

"Don't forget to pick me up tonight," she says, pressing a possessive kiss to his jaw. Her eyes flick to me with unmistakable satisfaction. "I'll be ready whenever you are."

The front door closes behind her with a definitive click, leaving me alone with the one person I'd hoped never to see again.

When I turn back, Cade is still shirtless, still standing in the middle of the living room like some kind of Greek statue come to life. He's watching me with that same unreadable expression, and the silence stretches between us.

Joking, my foot.

I think, remembering Beck's dismissive words. The hatred radiating off Cade is so thick it could suffocate someone. He doesn't need to say anything, his entire body language screams that he'd rather be anywhere else, with anyone else.

Finally, he turns toward the stairs, dismissing me entirely.

"Don't you have anything to tell me?" The words burst out before I can stop them.

He pauses, one foot on the bottom step, then slowly turns back. His hands grip the banister as he leans against it, and that cruel smile I remember so well spreads across his face.

"Let's see," he says, his voice rougher than I remember. Probably from all the smoking and drinking and God knows what else he's been doing to slowly kill himself and drag my brother down with him. "This is a hockey house. There are five other guys living here, and they're not exactly the quiet, studious type you're used to."

The condescension drips from every word.

"The last room down the hall upstairs is yours. Try not to judge everyone too harshly for not meeting your impossibly high standards."

"Any other rules I should know about?" I ask, keeping my voice level despite the way his words cut.

He scoffs, pushing off the banister and stalking back toward me. Each step is deliberate, predatory, designed to intimidate.

"Rules, Princess?" The old nickname lands like a slap. He used to call me that mockingly when I was fifteen and Beck would drag him to family dinners.

He stops just close enough that I have to tilt my head back to meet his eyes, close enough that I can see the flecks of gold that make them so unnervingly beautiful. My back hits the wall behind me as he leans in, one hand braced beside my head.

"You're only here because of your brother and your daddy," he says, his voice dropping to barely above a whisper. "This house, that room upstairs—that's charity. You have nothing to do with me, and I sure as hell want nothing to do with you."

His breath is warm against my face, and I hate that I notice. Hate that some traitorous part of my body responds to his proximity instead of recoiling like it should.

"If you decide to jump off a cliff, that's on you. Don't expect me to catch you." He leans closer, his mouth nearly brushing my ear. "Don't expect anything from me except exactly what you've always gotten."

"Good," I manage, proud when my voice doesn't shake. "Because I wouldn't want anything from you anyway."

He starts to pull back, but something inside me snaps. Two years of watching him lead Beck down increasingly dangerous paths, two years of biting my tongue while he filled my brother's head with ideas about parties and girls and "experiences," two years of being treated like the uptight buzzkill for caring about things that actually matter.

"You know," I call after him as he turns away, "just because you're being ‘helpful’ doesn’t mean you get to treat me like this."

That stops him cold. He turns back slowly, that dangerous smile widening into something that makes my pulse stutter.

"You're absolutely right," he says, taking a step closer. "But you know what does give me the right?"

I lift my chin, meeting his stare despite every instinct screaming at me to run. "Enlighten me."

"The fact that every time I look at you, I remember exactly what kind of person you really are underneath all that righteous bullshit." His voice is soft, deadly. "So if I'm being an asshole, Holloway, it's because you've more than earned it."

The words hit like a physical blow but I narrow my eyes.

He's halfway up the stairs when he pauses, glancing back over his shoulder with that infuriating smirk.

"Oh, and Princess?" His voice drips with mock concern. "Next time try not to stare when two people are making out. Makes you look like a bit of a pervert."

My mouth falls open in outrage. "I wasn't—"

But he's already gone, his door slamming shut upstairs with enough force to rattle the windows.

I stand there in the sudden silence, my face burning with humiliation and fury, my hands clenched into fists at my sides. A pervert. He called me a pervert for witnessing his public display of poor judgment and worse boundaries.

This is exactly why I can't stand him. Cade West is chaos personified, a black hole of bad decisions and worse influences, and he has the audacity to act like I'm the problem for pointing it out.

I grab my Constitution, clutching it to my chest like armor, and head upstairs to find my room with the sinking realization that this year is going to be even worse than I thought.