Chapter 5: Whiskey and Betrayal
The phone buzzed against the coffee table. Once. Twice. A third time.
Ryan didn't move. He sat on the edge of the couch, elbows on his knees, staring at the screen like it might bite him. The text glowed in the dim apartment light, each word a small, sharp hook.
Party at my place. Let's squash this. Just you and me. No drama.
Bria was watching him from the other end of the couch. She had her legs tucked beneath her, a textbook open in her lap, but she hadn't turned a page in ten minutes. Her eyes were sharp. Knowing. The kind of eyes that saw through every lie he'd ever told himself.
"You're actually considering it," she said.
Not a question.
Ryan didn't answer.
He picked up the phone. Read the text again. Dex's name at the top of the screen, the little contact photo a stupid picture from sophomore year—both of them drunk, arms around each other, grinning like they owned the world.
No drama.
Yeah, right.
"He's trying to lure you into something," Bria said. "You know that, right?"
"I know."
"So why are you still looking at your phone like you're going to text him back?"
Ryan set the phone down. Stood up. Paced to the kitchen and back. His apartment felt smaller than usual—the walls closer, the air thicker. He could still smell her perfume from last night. Vanilla and something floral. It clung to the couch, the pillows, the collar of his shirt.
"I've known him for four years," Ryan said.
"I know."
"He's been my best friend since freshman year. Before the team. Before any of it."
"I know."
"And now he's—" Ryan stopped. Rubbed a hand over his face. "He's threatening to expose us. To ruin everything. And then he sends me this text like nothing happened. Like we can just go back to the way things were."
Bria closed her textbook. Set it aside. Her movements were slow, deliberate, like she was giving him time to catch up to whatever she was about to say.
"You can go," she said. "If you need to."
Ryan looked at her.
"I'm not going to stop you," she continued. "I'm not going to give you an ultimatum. That's not who I am. But I need you to understand something."
"What?"
"If you go to his house tonight, you're not going there to squash anything. You're going there to prove something to yourself. Or to him. Or to both of you. And whatever happens—whatever you do, whatever he does—it's going to change things. Maybe for the better. Probably for the worse."
Ryan stared at her.
She stared back.
"You're terrifying," he said.
"I know."
He crossed the room. Knelt in front of her. Took her hands in his and pressed his forehead to hers.
"I'll be back in an hour," he said.
Bria didn't respond.
He kissed her forehead.
Then he stood up, grabbed his keys, and walked out the door.
---
Dex's house was a monument to bad decisions.
Three stories of brick and glass, perched at the end of a cul-de-sac like it owned the neighborhood. His parents were loaded—oil money, or real estate, or something equally boring—and they spent most of the year in Europe, leaving Dex with a mansion, a basement built for parties, and no supervision.
Ryan parked his truck behind a sleek black BMW. Killed the engine. Sat in the dark for a moment, listening to his own breathing.
No drama.
He got out. Walked to the front door. Rang the bell.
The door swung open.
Dex stood there, grinning, a bottle of tequila in one hand and two shot glasses in the other. He was wearing a faded team hoodie and joggers, barefoot, hair still damp from a shower. He looked relaxed. Happy. Like the last three days hadn't happened.
"Mitchell," he said. "You came."
"Against my better judgment."
Dex laughed. Stepped aside. "Get in here. We need to talk."
Ryan walked inside.
The house was exactly as he remembered—immaculate, expensive, cold. Marble floors. Modern art on the walls that probably cost more than his truck. The kind of place that looked like a magazine but felt like nobody actually lived there.
Dex led him to the basement.
The stairs creaked under their weight. The air got warmer as they descended, thick with the smell of leather and whiskey and something vaguely sweet. The basement was Dex's kingdom—a sprawling space with a sectional couch the size of a small car, a bar along one wall, a TV the size of a movie screen, and a pool table that had never actually been used for pool.
"Shot for the road," Dex said, pouring tequila into both glasses.
Ryan took one. Sniffed it. Felt the burn before it even hit his lips.
Dex raised his glass. "To squashing shit."
They drank.
The tequila was smooth. Expensive. It warmed Ryan's chest and loosened something tight behind his ribs.
"Sit," Dex said, gesturing to the couch. "Let's talk."
Ryan sat.
Dex sat beside him. Not too close. Not too far. Just two guys, sharing a drink, working through their problems like men were supposed to.
"I was out of line," Dex said. "The other night. The way I talked to her. The way I talked to you. It was fucked up."
Ryan stared at him.
"I was drunk. And I was pissed. And I took it out on you." Dex poured another round. "I'm not saying I approve. I'm not saying I get it. But you're my boy. And I don't want to lose you over some—"
He stopped himself.
"Over some what?" Ryan asked.
"Over a girl." Dex handed him the shot. "Any girl."
Ryan took it. Drank it. Felt the warmth spread through his limbs.
"I'm not going to apologize for being with her," he said.
"I'm not asking you to." Dex leaned back. "I'm just asking you to hear me out. I've known you since we were eighteen. I know you better than anyone. And I know this isn't you."
"You don't know me."
"I know the real you. The one who goes after what he wants. The one who doesn't give a shit what anybody thinks." Dex's eyes were steady. "The one who's not afraid."
Ryan didn't respond.
They drank.
And drank.
And somewhere between the third shot and the fourth, the tension started to dissolve. The anger. The fear. All of it fading into a warm, fuzzy haze.
Dex told a story about freshman year—the time they'd snuck into a frat party and Ryan had accidentally set off the fire alarm. Ryan laughed. A real laugh, the kind that came from deep in his chest.
Dex told another story—the time they'd gotten lost in the woods during a team retreat and Dex had convinced Ryan that a raccoon was a bear. Ryan laughed harder.
The whiskey came out. Then the bourbon. Then something Dex pulled from a locked cabinet that tasted like honey and fire.
Two hours passed.
Maybe three.
Ryan wasn't sure anymore.
He was sprawled on the sectional, head swimming, the ceiling fan spinning lazy circles above him. Dex was on the other end of the couch, scrolling through his phone, a lazy smile on his face.
"You know what we need?" Dex said.
"What?"
"Company."
Ryan's stomach clenched. "I don't think—"
"Relax." Dex was already typing. "Just some friends. Nothing serious. Just to... lighten the mood."
Ryan wanted to say no.
He should have said no.
But the alcohol was warm in his blood, and the couch was soft, and his phone was in his pocket, and Bria's face was a distant memory, blurred at the edges.
He didn't say anything.
Dex sent the text.
Twenty minutes later, the doorbell rang.
---
Four women.
Ryan didn't know their names. Didn't ask.
The blonde with the nose ring was called Misty, or Missy, or something that started with an M. The Latina with the tattoo snaking up her thigh was introduced as Carla. Or Karla. The other two disappeared with Dex toward the far end of the sectional, their laughter high and false, their hands already wandering.
Ryan stayed where he was.
The blonde—Misty, Missy, whatever—dropped onto the couch beside him. She was pretty in a way that felt practiced. Bleached hair, dark roots, the kind of body that came from hours at the gym and a strict diet. She smelled like cotton candy and cheap vodka.
"Hey, quarterback," she said. "I've seen you play."
"Cool."
"You're even hotter up close."
Ryan didn't respond.
She leaned in. Her hand landed on his thigh. Fingers walking up, up, up, toward the growing heat between his legs.
"You want another drink?" she asked.
"Sure."
She reached for the bottle on the table. Poured something amber into a glass. Handed it to him. Watched him drink.
The Latina—Carla—slid onto his other side. She was softer than the blonde, curvier, with dark eyes and a smile that promised trouble.
"You look like you need to forget something," she murmured.
Ryan's throat tightened.
"What makes you say that?"
"Your eyes." She traced a finger down his chest. "They look sad."
He should have stopped.
He should have stood up, grabbed his keys, walked out the door. Should have gone home to Bria, to the woman who actually knew him, who actually loved him, who was probably sitting on his couch right now wondering if he was okay.
But he didn't.
He finished the drink.
The blonde's hand found his belt. Undid the buckle. Slid inside his jeans, past his boxers, wrapped around his cock.
Ryan hissed through his teeth.
"Fuck," he breathed.
She smiled. Pulled him free. Stroked once, twice, slow and deliberate.
"You like that?"
He didn't answer.
She leaned down. Her tongue touched the head of his cock—light, teasing, a little wet. Ryan's hips jerked.
She laughed. Took him deeper. Her lips sealed around his shaft, her tongue working the underside, her hand gripping the base. She bobbed her head, slow at first, then faster, hollowing her cheeks, saliva dripping down her chin.
Ryan groaned. His head fell back against the couch.
The Latina—Carla—was still beside him. Her hand slid up his chest. Her mouth found his neck, his jaw, his ear.
"You're so tense," she whispered. "Let us help you."
Her fingers trailed down his stomach. Found his balls. Cupped them, squeezed gently, rolled them between her fingers while the blonde sucked his cock.
Ryan's eyes fluttered shut.
The room was spinning. The alcohol. The heat. The wet sound of the blonde's mouth. The soft weight of Carla's body against his side.
He was drowning.
And he didn't want to be saved.
Carla kissed him. Her lips were soft, her tongue insistent, tasting like tequila and something sweet. She kissed him like she meant it, like she wanted to crawl inside his skin.
He kissed her back.
His hand found her thigh. Slid higher, under her skirt, past the tattoo curling up her hip. His fingers brushed her underwear. She was wet.
"Fuck," he muttered against her mouth.
"You want me?" she asked.
"Yeah."
"Then take me."
She pulled away. Stood up. Led him by the hand to the other end of the basement, away from Dex and the other girls, away from the low light of the TV.
There was a bed down here. King-sized. Silk sheets.
Ryan didn't question it.
Carla pushed him onto his back. Straddled him. Her skirt was hiked up around her waist, her underwear a scrap of black lace. She pulled it aside, positioned herself over his cock, and sank down in one slow, wet slide.
Ryan's vision went white.
"Fuck," he gasped.
She rode him. Hard and fast, her hips grinding against his, her nails raking down his chest. Her tits bounced beneath her shirt. Her mouth was open, moaning, filthy words spilling out in two languages.
He grabbed her hips. Fucked up into her. Met her thrust for thrust.
"Yeah," she panted. "Yeah, just like that. Don't stop."
He didn't.
Across the room, Dex was watching.
He had one girl on her knees, her mouth wrapped around his cock. The other was behind him, kissing his neck, her hands on his chest. But his eyes were fixed on Ryan.
His phone was in his hand.
He angled it carefully. Casual. Like he was just checking a message.
The camera clicked.
Ryan didn't notice. His eyes were closed. His body buried in Carla. His mind empty of everything except the heat and the wet and the desperate need to forget.
Dex smiled. Sent the photo to himself. Deleted it from the camera roll. Slid the phone back into his pocket.
Ryan thrust harder. Faster. Carla screamed something incoherent and shattered around him, her whole body shaking.
He came a minute later. Burying his face in her neck, spilling inside her with a groan that sounded almost like a sob.
The room went quiet.
Carla rolled off him. Grabbed her underwear. Disappeared toward the bathroom.
Ryan lay there, staring at the ceiling, his chest heaving.
The ceiling fan spun. The room smelled like sex and sweat and regret.
And somewhere in the back of his mind, a small, quiet voice whispered a name.
Bria.
He closed his eyes.
Dex appeared beside the bed. Grinning. Holding two shots.
"You good?" he asked.
Ryan didn't answer.
Dex laughed. Clinked his glass against Ryan's chest.
"Told you, man. Sometimes you just need to blow off some steam."
Ryan took the shot.
Drank it.
And tried to forget the look on Bria's face when he'd walked out the door.
The shot burned going down. Ryan set the glass on the nightstand and swung his legs off the bed.
Carla had disappeared somewhere. The other girls too. Dex was passed out on the sectional with one of them draped across his chest, both of them snoring in that deep, drunken way that meant they wouldn't wake for hours.
Ryan found his jeans. Pulled them on. His shirt was somewhere—he didn't remember taking it off, couldn't remember much of anything after the third shot.
He grabbed his keys from the bar. Checked his phone. Three missed calls from Bria. Two texts.
Where are you?
It's been two hours.
He stared at the screen. The words blurred. He blinked. Read them again.
Two hours.
He'd told her one.
The front door was heavy. It took him three tries to get it open. The night air hit him like a wall—cold, sharp, sobering. He stumbled to his truck. Got behind the wheel.
The drive home was a blur of streetlights and stop signs he barely registered. He shouldn't be driving. He knew that. But his body was on autopilot, following the familiar route back to his apartment.
He parked crooked. Didn't care.
The stairs to his floor felt like a mountain. He climbed them one at a time, hand on the railing, feet heavy. His head was pounding. His mouth tasted like tequila and something sour.
He unlocked the door.
The apartment was dark. Quiet.
Except for the lamp in his bedroom. The soft yellow glow spilling through the crack in the door.
Ryan stood in the entryway. His heart was doing something strange—pounding too fast, then too slow. He kicked off his shoes. Dropped his keys on the counter.
He needed a shower.
He walked past the bedroom. Didn't look inside. Couldn't.
The bathroom was small and white and too bright. He turned the water on hot. Stripped off his jeans. Stepped under the spray.
The water hit his skin like needles. He stood there, palms flat against the tile, letting it run over his head, his shoulders, his back. The smell of the blonde's perfume washed away. The feel of Carla's hands. The taste of cheap liquor.
He scrubbed himself raw. Used too much soap. Watched the water swirl down the drain.
He didn't feel clean.
He turned the water off. Grabbed a towel. Dried himself with rough, jerky movements.
When he opened the bathroom door, steam billowed out into the hallway.
Bria was sitting on his bed.
She was wearing one of his t-shirts—the faded grey one from freshman year, the one that was too big for her, the one she'd claimed months ago and never given back. Her hair was down. Her legs were crossed. She was reading something on her phone.
She looked up when he walked in.
Ryan stopped in the doorway. Water still dripping from his hair. Towel around his waist.
"You're still awake," he said.
"I was waiting."
The words hung in the air. Simple. Matter-of-fact. No accusation. No anger.
That made it worse.
"I'm sorry," he said.
Bria set her phone down. Studied him. Her eyes moved over his face, his chest, the towel, the way he was swaying slightly on his feet.
"You're drunk," she said.
"Yeah."
"And you smell like a strip club."
"I know."
She didn't say anything else. Just watched him. Waiting.
Ryan crossed the room. His legs weren't working right. He knelt on the bed, crawled toward her, stopped when his face was inches from hers.
"I fucked up," he said.
"I know."
"I shouldn't have gone."
"I know that too."
He kissed her.
It was clumsy at first—too much tongue, too much teeth, the kiss of a man who'd forgotten how to be gentle. But Bria didn't pull away. She kissed him back. Slow. Steady. Like she was anchoring him to something solid.
His hands found her waist. Slid under the hem of the t-shirt. Her skin was warm. Soft. Real.
"I'm sorry," he mumbled against her mouth. "I'm so sorry."
"Stop talking."
She pulled the towel away. It fell to the floor. Her hand wrapped around his cock—already hard, already aching—and stroked once.
Ryan groaned.
She pushed him back. Onto the mattress. Climbed on top of him, her thighs straddling his hips, the t-shirt bunching around her waist.
He looked up at her.
The lamp light caught her face. Her eyes were dark. Unreadable. Her lips were parted, her breath coming faster now.
"I don't know why I'm doing this," she said.
"Neither do I."
She sank down on him.
Ryan's back arched. His hands flew to her hips. She was tight. Wet. So fucking wet. She took him inch by inch, her jaw clenched, her nails digging into his chest.
"Fuck," he gasped.
Bria started to move.
Slow at first. Grinding. Circling her hips. Her eyes never left his.
"You were gone for three hours," she said.
"I know."
"Three hours."
"I know."
She rode him harder. Faster. Her tits bounced beneath the t-shirt. Her breath came in short, sharp gasps.
"I sat here," she said. "Waiting. Wondering if you were dead. Wondering if you'd left me. Wondering if Dex had finally—"
She stopped. Bit her lip. Closed her eyes.
Ryan grabbed her waist. Flipped her onto her back. Drove into her with a force that made the headboard slam against the wall.
"I'm here," he said. "I'm here. I'm not going anywhere."
Bria's legs wrapped around his waist. Her arms around his neck. She pulled him close. So close he could feel her heartbeat against his chest.
He fucked her like it was the only thing keeping him alive. Hard. Deep. Desperate. Every thrust was an apology, a confession, a plea.
She came first. Her body tensing, her cunt clenching around him, a low moan escaping her throat. Ryan followed a few strokes later. Spilling inside her. Collapsing on top of her.
For a long moment, neither of them moved.
Then Bria's phone buzzed.
Once. Twice.
She ignored it. Ran her fingers through his wet hair.
It buzzed again.
"Someone's popular," Ryan mumbled.
"It's probably nothing."
It buzzed a fourth time.
Bria sighed. Reached for the phone. Ryan rolled off her, onto his back, staring at the ceiling.
The room was quiet.
Too quiet.
He felt her body go still beside him. Felt the air shift. Felt something cold crawl up his spine.
"Bria?"
She didn't answer.
He turned his head.
She was sitting up. Staring at her phone. The screen's glow painted her face in pale, ghostly light. Her expression was frozen. Her mouth open. Her eyes—her eyes were empty.
"What is it?" he asked.
She didn't respond.
He sat up. Reached for the phone.
She pulled it away. Held it to her chest. Looked at him like she'd never seen him before.
"Bria. Give me the phone."
"No."
"Give me the fucking phone."
She didn't move.
He grabbed her wrist. Forced the phone toward him. The screen was still lit.
A picture.
His cock buried in a woman who wasn't Bria. His face twisted in pleasure. His eyes closed. His mouth open. The blonde from Dex's basement on her knees beside him, her hand wrapped around the base, her lips wet.
Anonymous number. No text. Just the image.
Ryan stared at it.
The room spun.
"Who sent this?" he asked. His voice sounded like it belonged to someone else.
Bria didn't answer.
"Bria. Who sent this?"
"I don't know." Her voice was flat. Hollow. "It's a private number."
She pulled the phone away from him. Stood up. Walked to the corner of the room where her jeans were folded on the chair.
She started getting dressed.
"Where are you going?" Ryan asked.
"I don't know."
"Bria—"
"Don't." She pulled her jeans on. Zipped them. Grabbed her shoes. "Don't say anything. Don't explain. Don't apologize. Just... don't."
He stood up. Grabbed his boxers off the floor. Pulled them on.
"That's not what it looks like," he said.
She laughed. A short, bitter sound that cut through him like glass.
"Of course it's not."
"Dex set this up. He invited me over. He called those girls. He—"
"He took the picture."
Ryan stopped.
Bria turned to face him. Her eyes were dry. Her jaw was set. But her hands were shaking.
"He took the picture," she repeated. "While you were fucking her. While you were inside her. While your cock was in her mouth."
"I didn't know—"
"You didn't know he had a phone? You didn't know he was standing right there?" She grabbed her keys off the nightstand. "You were in his basement, Ryan. You went to his house after everything he said. After everything he threatened. And you expect me to believe you didn't know?"
Ryan's mouth opened. Closed.
He had no words.
Bria walked to the door.
"Wait." He grabbed her arm. "Just—wait. Please."
She stopped. Looked at his hand on her arm. Then at his face.
"I waited all night," she said. "I sat in your apartment for three hours. I called you. I texted you. And you didn't answer. You were too busy getting your dick sucked."
"I was drunk."
"That's not an excuse."
"I know."
She pulled her arm free.
"I need to go," she said.
"Bria—"
"Don't follow me."
She opened the door.
"Please," he said. "Just let me explain."
She paused in the doorway. Didn't turn around.
"You can explain tomorrow," she said. "Or next week. Or whenever you figure out what you actually want. But right now, I can't look at you. I can't be in the same room as you. Because all I can see when I close my eyes is that picture."
She stepped into the hallway.
"I'll call you," he said.
"Don't."
The door clicked shut.
Ryan stood there. Alone. Naked except for his boxers. The smell of sex still on his skin. The image of that photo burned into his brain.
He walked to the bed. Sat down. Put his head in his hands.
And for the first time in four years, Ryan Mitchell cried.