The Endgame

I didn’t hesitate to bring the cup to my lips for a taste.

St. Claire explained the flavors and history behind each cocktail. The football team and he had been experimenting at parties since freshman year, and he confided that plain alcohol was terrible, and they searched for nicer and funnier ways to get drunk.

It led them to develop their own cocktails.

I continued testing each one. When we reached St. Claire’s invention, I was curious. What would it entail? Something sweet? Something fruity? Or perhaps something different—minty?

I choked when I tried it. It was strong and burned in the back of my throat.

He laughed at my reaction. The sound traveled down my spine like a caress.

“I wasn’t specific when I told you about my mastery. I’m an expert at getting anyone drunk quickly, not at creating pleasant tastes,” He chuckled. I glared at him, shaking my head. “If you’re looking to forget about the entire existence of this planet, that’s your drink.” He pointed at his terrible concoction.

I tried not to be affected by his warm gaze and jokes. I needed to remain focused. I was here with him to be distracted, not to take my walls down and be charmed by him.

“Yeah. I’m not that desperate to forget,” I muttered, returning to a softer cocktail. Not at the expense of my throat, thank you.

We were silent for a second as I drank a bit more. I wiggled my body into the cushions, getting comfortable.

Meanwhile, St. Claire studied me. “You don’t normally come to parties.”

I raised my brows. “How did you figure that out?” My tone was sarcastic.

He licked his lips before speaking. “Haven’t seen you at any parties before.”

I snorted. I didn’t believe he would have noticed me if I had come to other parties, got naked, and danced on top of a table. He hadn’t noticed me at school before; why would it be different at a party? I’d be surprised if he knew my name.

Tonight was an exception because I was popping out like a sore thumb. A girl sitting all by herself, crying, and looking miserable before midnight? I was ruining the entire vibe of the celebration.

“Not my scene,” I confessed.

He leaned forward, seeming interested. “What do you like to do instead?”

Hate your guts…

I bit my tongue to stop myself from uttering the truth. An old habit I’d acquired while dating Jacob. Whenever I witnessed St. Claire doing horrible things, Jacob sensed my discomfort and stopped me.

He’s not worth your anger, Hazel, Jacob would say.

St. Claire might not be worthy, but it didn’t stop me from being pissed off. Tonight was the first and only time he hadn’t done something to outrage me.

In fact, he was being nice and attentive.

That was the only reason I decided to answer his question in earnest.

“Snuggle in bed and read,” I began. “Watch Netflix. Hang out with my—” I halted and swallowed, feeling a stab in my chest. “Friend.”

I’d considered Jacob one of my closest friends as well as my boyfriend. The loss of him meant losing my oldest friend. The thought was deflating.

I hoped St. Claire didn’t pick up on my faltering. I dreaded the explanation. However, he did. His forehead creased in confusion. “Friend? Did you fight with your friend?”

I looked down. My muscles were tense again. All the effort to loosen up was lost. “Something like that…” I raised the cup back to my lips and took a large gulp.

I was grateful when St. Claire dropped the subject. His expression cleared and he nodded. His hands shifted on the coffee table in front of us. He served me a new drink, a stronger one. Then he swapped my drinks.

It was a silent invitation to forget. I took it.

***

“So, St. Claire,” I said. The mention of his name seemed to shift his stance. He was slouched, relaxed. Yet after I mentioned his last name, his back straightened. It was as though the sound alerted him.

“We’re on a last-name basis? Okay, then. What’s up, Miller?”

That surprised me. I didn’t know he knew my name. The school wasn’t that big, but since he had never paid any attention to me, I thought I wasn’t on his radar. I thought I was invisible to him.

Apparently, I was wrong.

I couldn’t decide whether the fact was flattering or alarming.

Why would he need to know my name? I wasn’t popular nor the valedictorian. I didn’t stand out.

I decided not to give it much of a thought for now. Instead, I focused on what I wanted to ask him. “How many tries before you got to this horrible drink?” I indicated his signature cocktail. “Wasn’t the point of creating these cocktails to conceal the taste of alcohol? This is an abomination.”

He laughed, shaking his head. “Ouch. Here I thought my cocktail was your favorite.”

I rolled my eyes. “It almost killed me. Did you give up after the third time? You can tell me the truth. I’ll definitely hold it against you.”

He wasn’t unperturbed by words; instead, he smiled softly. “I never give up, Miller,” he stated, his tone sober. For some reason, the words sent a shiver down my spine. “Normally, we begin with the softer cocktails. Then, once we are tipsy, we swap for my cocktail. Guaranteed to get you drunk and do stupid shit.”

“Stupid things?” My brows rose.

His lips twitched, satisfied by my curiosity. He leaned closer, and his warmth and cologne invaded me. He smelled very nice, strong and masculine. I sucked in a breath but remained still.

I reminded myself I was curious, only because I needed time to pass, to clear my head.

I told myself I wasn’t moving away from him because the music was loud, and it was easier to hear him this way.

Not for any other reason.

***

There was an explanation as to why St. Claire was popular. He was a good storyteller and pretty entertaining. Something I wasn’t going to admit to him—his ego didn’t need to grow even more. The guy was insufferable.

But he was also funny, charismatic, and attractive.

Ugh.

For the past hour or so, I’d been hanging onto each of his words.

He told me about embarrassing stories involving the football team and his very dangerous cocktail. I wasn’t proud to admit I laughed. A lot. Whenever I smiled or laughed, St. Claire’s eyes sparkled, as though he took great pride in lifting my spirit.

Apparently, he was honest when he said he was fully committed to the job of consoling me.

My favorite story so far was when he and his friends got lost and decided to listen to the suggestions of one of St. Claire’s best friends, Jackson. Jackson chose the wrong turn, and they ended up with a car stuck in mud. By the minute, the car was sinking, like in a movie.

I wouldn’t have believed St. Claire if he hadn’t shown me the pictures.

Oliver—another guy from the football team—had the wonderful idea of getting into the mud to try to push the car out. He ended up with dirty clothes but was successful. However, Jackson wasn’t letting Oliver back in the car in that state, so Oliver had to remove all his clothes and ride in the back, naked.

The best part of the story was when St. Claire and Jackson dropped Oliver at home, and his mother was up and waiting for him. Oliver never forgave Jackson and St. Claire for that.

I was breathless by the end of the story.

St. Claire was smiling widely at me. His eyes moved from my eyes to my lips for a brief second.

The longer I remained in his company, the dizzier my head got. My cheeks were hurting from smiling so hard, and my body was hot and electric.

When he leaned closer, our faces inches away, my breath hitched. It was time to take a break and regroup. I was affected by St. Claire, and not in the way I was used to. Not in the way I wanted.

“Any funny stories of your own, Miller?” he asked.

“No,” I lied. I needed to get away from him for a second. I stood and my world shifted.

Whoa!

My head spun for a second before I realized I was tipsy or even drunk. It had been a smooth transition.

“Careful, there.” St. Claire shot from his seat next to me and grabbed my waist, keeping me firm on the ground. Even though the alcohol had dulled my senses, I was very aware of his massive hands on my body. They felt like anchors, unmovable and heavy. “Where are you going?”