The Score (Off-Campus #3)(108)

His face turns red.

“I get it, the Life of Dean is all sunshine and roses—” It’s my turn to dish out the sarcasm “—but real life isn’t like that. In real life, bad things happen, and you need to deal with them.”

I pick up my suitcase and march to the door. I stop abruptly, spinning toward him again. I’m so mad and hurt I can’t think straight.

“Life isn’t perfect, Dean, and you need to grow the fuck up and accept that. I’ve been trying to help you, but you won’t let me. I’ve spent almost a month watching you drink yourself stupid. Watching you push everyone away, watching you disappoint everyone around you.”

He still doesn’t say a word, and that makes me angrier.

“I went to Coach Ellis on your behalf!” I shout. “I convinced him to give you another shot for when you decide to come back to coach the team.” The tears fall faster, soaking my cheeks. “I sat with Dakota while she cried her eyes out! She thinks you hate her because she didn’t want to wear goddamn boy skates!” I gasp for air. “Well, I’m not holding your hand anymore or cleaning up your messes. I’m done, Dean.”

His breath sucks in. Finally, something I say gets his attention. “You’re not done.”

“Yes, I am.” My hand is quaking so wildly I almost drop the suitcase on my foot. “Do you think you’re the only one who’s lost someone? I watched my mother die of cancer. I literally watched her wither away and die.”

“Allie—”

“You need to find a way to deal with your grief. But I can’t be there anymore to help you. I’m not going to stand by and watch you stick your head in a bottle because you’re too afraid to face the pain. I’m done.”

I storm out of the bedroom, leaving him staring after me in shock.





32




Dean


I’m awakened by a loud, agonized groan. Christ, it sounds like someone is dying, and it takes a minute to comprehend that the tortured noise had come from me. I’m groaning, because my head hurts. No, my eye hurts. Why does my eye hurt?

I sit up and gingerly touch my face. My left eye is swollen shut. And my mouth is drier than the Sahara. Shit. I’m so goddamn thirsty. And weary—just the act of lifting my hand to my face has drained me of energy.

The molly, I realize. Last time I took some, it also left me feeling drained and achy the next morning.

I slide out of bed and discover I fell asleep fully clothed. Staggering to the closet, I open the door and study the mirror behind it. Sweet Jesus. My eye is purple bordering on black, and as I study my reflection, all the events of last night come crashing back.

Missing Allie’s play.

Allie dumping me.

Garrett coming home and yelling at me. What was he yelling about… I strain to remember. Right, about missing Allie’s play. Oh, and because I’d invited half the football team over to the house and they…yup, a few of the linebackers were snorting coke in the kitchen. Fuck. That’s when Garrett pulled me aside and started railing into me. I must have said something he didn’t like, because…well, black eye.

I turn away from the mirror and sink on the edge of the bed, conducting a mental tally of what I’m dealing with right now.

I have a black eye.

I have an angry roommate who gave me the black eye.

I have an ex-girlfriend.

And I made a little girl cry.

I sat with Dakota while she cried her eyes out! She thinks you hate her because she didn’t want to wear goddamn boy skates!

Allie’s angry words blare like a trumpet in my head, making my temples throb and my stomach churn. I barely make it to the bathroom in time, gagging on the bile in my throat before I even reach the toilet. I drape myself over the porcelain bowl and dry heave for what feels like hours. I didn’t eat anything last night, so there’s nothing to throw up, but my stomach keeps twisting and clenching and I can’t stop heaving.

When the nausea finally settles, I brush my teeth at the sink, then drop to the tiled floor and sit there for a while, thinking about what I’ve done. What I’ve lost.

Allie.

Beau.

Goddamn Beau. Why the fuck did he have to go and die?

The thought is so absurd it triggers a wave of laughter. Loud and uncontrollable, until my eyes are watering and I’m hiccupping.

There’s a knock on the door. “Dean…you in there?”

I cringe at the sound of Garrett’s voice. He doesn’t sound pissed, though. Just tired.

When I open the door, I find a pair of serious gray eyes peering back at me. “You okay?” Garrett says gruffly.

I laugh again. “Not in the slightest.”

Guilt passes through his expression. “I’m sorry about the shiner.” He curses. “But goddamn it, man, you had it coming. You should see the mess those guys left. The house is trashed.”

I drag a weak hand over my scalp. “I’ll clean it. And don’t worry about the shiner. I deserved it. I’m surprised Allie didn’t give me a matching one.”

Just saying her name is brutal. It feels like someone cut my chest open with a skate and is stabbing the blade into my heart, slicing it to ribbons.

I can’t imagine how she’ll ever forgive me. I wasn’t there for her opening night. Hell, I wasn’t there for her even before that. For three weeks I’ve been walking around in a fog, doing my damnedest to try to forget that Beau is dead. Whenever he crossed my thoughts, I’d crack open another beer or roll another joint, because it was the fastest, easiest way to shut down my brain.