The Score (Off-Campus #3)(107)

When I pull up in front of the house, I’m startled by the amount of vehicles parked on the street. And there are four unfamiliar cars in the driveway, so I’m forced to park on the curb.

I hear the music before I even reach the front door, which is unlocked. Anger floods my stomach, bubbling and simmering and reaching a boil when I enter the living room.

It’s full of monsters—man monsters, with a few petite women in the mix. Because of their sheer size, I determine that the guys lounging on the couch and armchairs and leaning against the wall must be football players. The girls, who knows. But I’m gratified to see they’re draped over the football dudes and not my boyfriend. Dean is alone, sprawled in an armchair with his eyes closed.

As if he senses my presence, his eyelids pop open, and his face lights up when he spots me in the doorway. His happiness is short-lived, though. I’m still in the gingham housedress that my character wore tonight. I’ve still got my stage makeup on. My hair is still pulled back in a harried, messy bun. I’m not Allie right now. I’m Jeannette. And Dean’s eyes widen in panic when he realizes what that signifies.

“Allie.” His voice is drowned out by the music.

I take one last look at the party going on in the living room, then spin on my heel and hurry toward the staircase.

The tears well up again, and my throat is so tight I can scarcely breathe. This is why he couldn’t be bothered to show up for opening night? Because he was partying with a bunch of football players?

I burst into his room and race to the dresser, yanking open the top drawer where I’ve been keeping the clothes I brought over from the dorm. I usurped half of Dean’s closet too, and that’s my next stop—pulling clothes off hangers and tossing them in my suitcase.

“Aw baby, don’t do that.” Dean appears in the doorway.

I ignore him and continue packing.

“Allie, please.” He comes up behind me, and I swallow a sob when his strong arms encircle me. For one brief moment, I allow myself to sag against him. To lean into his warm, sturdy chest and feel his stubble scrape my skin as he rubs his cheek over mine. “I’m sorry, baby. I fucked up. I totally forgot your play was tonight.”

I reminded you ten times! I want to shout.

“I promise I’ll be there for tomorrow’s performance.” His hands run up and down my waist, caress my stomach, skim my ass. “You said there’s three shows, right?”

My voice comes out terse. “Yes. But don’t bother coming tomorrow night. I don’t want you there.”

He nuzzles my shoulder with his chin. “Don’t say that. I know you’re pissed, but I’ll make it up to you. I will be there tomorrow.”

“I wanted you there tonight, Dean.” I still can’t bring myself to turn around and look at him. And I don’t know why I’m letting him rub up against me like this. Come to think of it, why is he rubbing against me? I can feel his erection, harder than stone, digging into my ass. How is he turned on right now?

The bizarre response of his body is what prompts me to spin around. Frowning, I carefully study his face, cataloging every detail. He’s not drunk, I realize. His cheeks are flushed, but his eyes are too bright. Which means he’s not stoned either, because his eyes usually get fuzzy after he’s smoked weed. Right now they’re shining. Sparkling with pleasure and happiness that he absolutely should not be feeling, not when I’m standing here in tears.

I inhale slowly. “What are you on?”

He looks confused by the question.

“What are you on, Dean?” I snap “What did you take?”

He blinks, then says, “Oh. Just some molly.”

For fuck’s sake.

Without another word, I shove past him and zip up my suitcase.

“Where are you going?” He sounds hurt.

“Bristol,” I spit out. “I’m not staying here anymore.”

“Why?”

“Why? You blew off my opening night to throw a party and do drugs! You’re hopped up on MDMA, rubbing your dick all over me when I’m fucking crying! And you’re seriously asking me why I’m leaving?”

His eyes cloud over. “I didn’t throw a party. Ollie and Rodriguez called, asked if I wanted to chill, reminisce about Beau. So, what, I’m supposed to say no to that?”

My jaw drops. “Don’t you dare use Beau as an excuse for getting high!”

He flinches, but when he speaks again, his tone is defensive. “Big deal, babe. I took some molly. It’s not like I do it on a regular basis. Last time was more than a year ago.”

“That’s not the point!” I’m struggling to breathe again. There’s no use in arguing with him right now. He can’t hear me, not when he’s on drugs. I exhale, and the air seeps out in a weak puff. “My dad was right. I can’t count on you at all.”

“Are you fucking kidding me? I’ve been there for you from the start!” He growls. “My best friend fucking died, Allie. So gee, I’m sorry if I’ve been a tad distracted lately. I’ve had a lot on my mind.”

His sarcasm isn’t appreciated. “Distracted? You haven’t been distracted. You’ve been drunk! And now you’re goddamn high!” Resentment burns a path up my throat and pricks at my eyes. “Guess what, Dean? People die! It wrecks me that Beau is gone. It. Fucking. Wrecks. Me. But you can’t just drink all the pain away.”