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stand for family and friendship and trust. We stand for righteousness because that’s who the Vipers are. And whether you like it or not, Jack’s gotta sort this shit.”
    Leah’s eyes spit unsaid profanities at me.
    “Call your girl in the morning,” I tell her, backing up. “Until then, her ass is mine to kick.”
    Because there’s no fucking way Macey Kelly can walk into my best friend’s house, tell me that her boyfriend knocked up her cousin, and then disappear on me.
    Fuck. She’s cuter than I thought.

    “Fuck you!”
    “Macey.”
    “Fuck you!”
    “Macey!”
    “Fuck. You. Jack!”
    “Baby, you want me to break down this door? I’ve steamrolled three-hundred-pound guys before, so you think I won’t snap this damn door off its hinges?”
    The door swings open, and she glares at me, her eyes blazing with a fiery mix of vulnerability and anger. My little vixen.
    “Here’s a hint,” she tells me, her whole body taut. “There’s an elevator behind you and a staircase to your left. I don’t give a fuck how you leave. Hell, throw yourself out of the damn window. I just care that you leave.”
    “So fuckin’ cute,” I say and jam my foot and shoulder between her door and the frame.
    “Two seconds and this slams in your pretty little face,” she grinds out.
    “Hundred pounds on you, baby. Remember?” I smirk. “I’ll stop that door with my baby finger.”
    She pulls the door back, and in line with my just-spoken statement, I hold my fingers out and stop the wood before it gets anywhere near me. Macey pushes forward, her eyes still focused fully on mine, and I push back. It’s like an arm wrestle—whoever falters first falls first. Or a staring match. Blink and you’re out.
    Either could be true. Both our hands and our eyes are battling it out, and we know that the first to submit will be the loser. We also know that the first will be her because her strength has nothing on mine.
    My lips tug up a little more. Her cheeks are flaming red, her eyes shimmering with determination. Her perfectly pink lips are pursed tightly, and every goddamn muscle of hers is tense.
    “Give in to me.”
    “Never,” she retorts. “Get out.”
    “You talk, I leave.”
    Her eyes narrow. “Right after?”
    “Sure, baby. Right after.”
    Slowly, Macey relinquishes her grip on the door and allows me to enter her apartment. As soon as I do, she walks into her kitchen, opens a bottle of tequila, pours a shot, and throws it to the back of her throat.
    Wordlessly, she pulls a bottle of Jack from a cupboard and a Bud from the fridge. “Take your pick.” She waves at them both before grabbing the bottle of Jack and turning back to her front room.
    “Damn. You left me with a real good choice there, baby.”
    “Whatever,” she answers. Her words are clipped and tight, and her posture says the same: Don’t touch me. Don’t come anywhere the fuck near me.
    Pity for her that I don’t take hints.
    For someone who learned that in the last thirty minutes, she should have understood it. You’d think.
    I uncap the beer with the opener sitting on the counter. I lean against said counter, my eyes on Macey, and swig from the bottle. Her body is tight. Her elbows are tucked into her sides, her legs crossed at the knees, and her face is aimed firmly out her window at the Los Angeles city lights as she sits on her sofa.
    Her apartment has big-ass windows, and as I look at her now in the late night, it looks like she’s illuminated by the brightness of the city beyond her. It crosses my mind why she’s so in the center of the city when she’s still in college—no one in college can afford an apartment in the center of L.A. But, honestly, that shit doesn’t matter much when I see that she’s closing off from me.
    I tip the bottle again for a couple of gulps, knowing Coach would kill me if he found out I was drinking on a weeknight. But right now, I don’t care.
    Slowly, I move forward.
    Macey only moves when she tips her