Page 73 of Under the Influence

His dark eyes burn into mine, both of our breathing slowing, our lips almost touching. The pull between us is stronger than a magnet.

The feeling hits me again like a Mack truck.

Guilt.

I shouldn’t feel guilty because, chances are, this date night was a setup. A way for Nash to get into my head, to make me fall for him. Only to destroy me later, of course. Still, this small minuscule part of me knows deep down that the boy who claimed me, did it because he knows there is something there. Something that the kiss we shared a few years ago sealed in fate.

Us.

Him and I.

“Carson, I…” He puts his finger to my lips, blocking my words.

“No,” he begs. “Please don’t say it, Cori. Don’t say that you want him. Don’t say that you don’t feel something between us, too. I know that you feel it when you melt into me in my bed every night.”

“He’s your best friend,” I whisper.

“No, he’s my brother, but I won’t let him hurt you.”

Before I can stop him, his lips fall so delicately against mine. Where Nash’s kiss is possessive, Carson’s is intimate. Where Nash takes, Carson gives, and it’s equally torturing.

I place my palm against his chest, separating us a little, his heart beating wildly against it. “I won’t come between you guys. We can’t do this, Carson.”

His phone rings loudly between us, Avery’s flawless face and Carson’s lips against her cheek filling his screen.

“Go,” I whisper. “I’ve got him.”

He hesitates a second, looking between Nash and myself. “Carson, go. I’m fine.”

He shakes his head, “I’m not fine, though. None of this”—He swirls his finger between the three of us—“is fine.”

Nash moves a little on the bed, his eyes opening to scan the room before turning extremely pale. I grab the trashcan from the bathroom and quickly guide him over it. Carson’s phone continues to ring as he stands in the doorway.

I sigh, “We’re fine, and she probably needs you too. Just go.”

He pulls the door closed, and Nash continues to throw up right next to me. I search the bathroom for a washcloth and get it wet, placing it on the back of his neck. I’ve been drunk enough times to know that getting it out like this will make him feel better.

When his retching seems to slow down, I lay him back onto his pillows. His eyes are open and alert now.

“You stood me up,” I tease.

He laughs, his words barely understandable, “I got beat up.”

He points to his black eye, the bruise begging my hand to touch it gently.

“Yeah, well, I saw the other guy. He looked worse than you.”

Nash almost instantly sobers up, “Did he touch you? He didn’t hurt you, did he? I’ll kill him, Corinne. I swear to God.”

“No. He didn’t touch me, and he was just as upset as you are.”

He slurs something I can’t really understand and is passed back out in five seconds. I clean up and leave the washcloth against his neck. I make my way to the kitchen, search the freezer for something to put on his eye, and rummage through the cabinets for ibuprofen.

When I make it back up to Nash’s room a few minutes later, he’s sitting on the edge of his bed with his head hung between his knees. When I step through the doorway, his head jerks in my direction, and he’s taken aback by my presence. His face is wet with tears, and he’s literally sobbing. The badass Shark is crying right here in front of me, and it does something to me.

It nearly breaks my heart.

I hand him the ice pack and pass him the ibuprofen.