Chapter 15: Party
The house in Woodland Hills pulsed with a deep, subwoofer-heavy rhythm that Svet felt in her molars. Bodies packed every inch of the sprawling place, a mash-up of Chargers players, college friends, and archly pretty strangers who always seemed to find the winning team’s after-party. Alexa had vanished into the throng twenty minutes ago, leaving Svet glued to Joe’s side.
She held a red plastic cup, its contents—some vaguely fruity vodka concoction—already half gone. Joe’s own cup held water. He’d said “off-season” with a shrug when she’d asked, his big body a gentle bulwark against the jostling crowd.
“You’re actually fun when you’re not overthinking,” he murmured into her ear, his breath warm. The noise forced them into a forced, intimate proximity.
“This isn’t fun,” she yelled back, a grin betraying her. “This is anthropological research. Look at that guy. He’s trying to lick the stone fireplace.” She took another long sip. The alcohol was a warm, buzzing insulator against her habitual nerves, against the lingering shock of the stadium, the cameras, the phantom sensation of being lifted off her feet.
He laughed, a low rumble she felt through his chest where her shoulder pressed against it. “C’mon.”
He took her hand and led her toward the living room, where a rolling sea of people were dancing. There was no dance floor, just a cleared space of scuffed hardwood where the furniture had been pushed back. The music shifted to something with a serpentine, insistent beat.
The warmth in her blood became a current. She turned into him, letting the music take over, her hips finding the groove. He was a terrible dancer, all stiff, massive shoulders and slight, awkward sways, but he kept his hands on her waist, his eyes locked on hers, a private smile playing on his lips.
“You’re staring,” she shouted.
“I like the view.”
Emboldened by the drink and the possessive heat in his gaze, she closed the last inch between them, grinding her backside against him in time with the bass. He went very still for a second, then his hands tightened, pulling her flush against him. He bent his head, his lips brushing the shell of her ear. “Keep that up and we’re leaving.”
“Promises, promises,” she giggled, tipping her head back against his shoulder. She could feel the hard planes of his body, the unyielding proof of his physicality. It was intoxicating. She turned in his arms, looping hers around his neck. “I like you,” she slurred slightly, the words sweet and easy in the liquor’s embrace. “I really, really like you, Joe Alt. You’re not a douchebag. You’re a… a sweet, giant… oak tree.”
He chuckled, nuzzling into her hair. “An oak tree.”
“A very sexy oak tree.”
The moment shattered.
A large hand clapped Joe on the shoulder, and a teammate Svet vaguely recognized—a defensive back named Micah, all cocky grin and predatory energy—slid into their space. He smelled like expensive cologne and cheaper beer.
“Alt! There you are, man! Hiding with the trophy!” Micah boomed, his eyes raking over Svet with undiluted appreciation. He didn’t wait for an invitation. The music swelled, and he started dancing, his movements aggressively confident, his focus entirely on Svet. He moved in front of her, cutting between her and Joe, his body attempting to sync with hers.
Svet froze, the sweet buzz turning sour in her veins. She took a step back, bumping into Joe’s chest. “Hey, no, I’m—”
But Micah was undeterred. He reached for her hips.
Joe’s hand shot out, fingers like steel cables wrapping around Micah’s forearm. “Back off, Micah.”
“Chill, big man! Just dancing!” Micah laughed, trying to shake him off, his eyes still on Svet. “Sharing is caring, right?”
It happened too fast for Svet to process. The words. The leer. The violation of the space Joe had just been guarding so gently. She saw the change in Joe’s face. The softness evaporated, replaced by a flat, lethal calm. It was more frightening than any scowl.
He didn’t shove. He didn’t yell.
He simply released Micah’s arm, cocked his fist back, and drove it forward in one brutally efficient motion. The crack of knuckles on jawbone cut through the music. Micah’s head snapped to the side and his legs buckled. He went down hard, a messy tangle of limbs on the sticky floor.
A collective “OOOH!” rippled through the immediate crowd. The music played on, but a ring of silence expanded around them. People stared. Phones were raised.
Svet’s heart hammered against her throat. Joe stood over Micah, his fist still clenched, his chest heaving. The quiet around him was volcanic. He looked capable of anything.
She didn’t think. She pushed into his space, forcing herself into his line of sight. She grabbed his clenched hand, prying the fist open with both of hers. Her fingers interlaced with his, feeling the raw, hot skin of his knuckles. She reached up with her other hand, cupping his jaw, her thumb stroking the tense muscle there.
“Joe. Look at me.”
His dark eyes, glazed with a fury she’d never seen, flicked down to hers.
“It’s okay,” she said, her voice low but clear, cutting through the residual rage humming through him. “He’s an idiot. I’m fine. It’s okay.”
She held his gaze, pouring every ounce of calm she didn’t feel into her own. Slowly, the terrible rigidity in his shoulders began to soften. A breath shuddered out of him. He leaned into her touch on his face.
She rose on her toes and kissed him. It wasn’t like the stadium kiss. This was soft, reassuring, a deliberate anchor. She felt him sigh against her mouth, his free hand coming up to rest on the small of her back, pulling her closer in a gentler claim. The crowd’s attention began to waver, shifting to the groaning Micah being helped up by two others, who shot Joe a wide-eyed look before steering their friend away.
“Let’s go somewhere else,” Svet whispered against his lips.
He nodded, mute. Keeping her hand firmly in his, he shouldered a path through the gawkers, his presence alone parting the crowd. He led her down a hallway, past a line for a bathroom, and shouldered open a door to a dim, quiet bedroom. Someone’s coat was on the bed. He locked the door behind them.
The muffled bass was a distant throb. A sliver of light from the window cut across his face. He looked at his reddened knuckles, then at her, anguish dousing the last of the anger. “I’m sorry. I lost my temper. I just… when he touched you…”
“Shhh.” She stepped into him again, taking his injured hand and bringing it to her lips, pressing a soft kiss to each swollen knuckle. A tremor ran through him. The protective rage was gone, replaced by something just as intense, but focused solely on her.
He was looking at her with a raw, unguarded hunger that made the air feel thin. Her own body, keyed up from the adrenaline, the alcohol, the public display, answered it with a sharp, pooling heat. She knew he could feel the slight tremble in her hands, the accelerated pulse at her wrist. His observant eyes missed nothing.
He leaned down, resting his forehead against hers. “Svet,” he breathed, her name a plea and a question.
The charged silence between them was louder than the party. His thumb traced the line of her jaw, his touch skating a line from her temple to her chin. Her breath hitched, and a faint, involuntary sound escaped her throat.
He went perfectly still. A new awareness crackled in the space between their bodies. He knew. He could feel the electricity she was giving off, the way her skin had warmed under his touch, the helpless, wanting arch of her spine as she pressed closer.
The last threads of her cynicism, already frayed, finally snapped. Here, in this strange, quiet room, with the scent of his skin and the taste of his violence still hanging in the air, all she wanted was to pull him down onto that bed and undo them both. And he, watching the surrender in her eyes, felt the same desperate pull.
The decision hovered, unspoken, in the next breath they took.