Wild Bastard

17

Matt

The party kicks off in the evening.

Whenever my dad's out of town, I throw a hell of a rager—trash the place, make a mess by the pool, let the night spiral into chaos.

Chicks in barely-there bikinis strut between the bar and the DJ booth. Guys take over the volleyball court. The space is massive—plenty of room for everyone. Club music thrums through the air, deep basslines setting the mood without drowning out conversation.

Kurt, Red's Rottweiler, barrels across the lawn. The moment he spots me, his cropped tail wags frantically before he bolts toward me.

I love this beast.

Most people steer clear of him—he's unpredictable—but I've known this devil since his first steps. Red and I took him from Mia, who never gave a shit about her pup. He lived with me for a while, but when I had to leave for the clinic, I handed him over to Alex. No regrets there. The two of them bonded, and I don't plan on taking him back.

His drooling face nudges against my palm, and I crouch down, scratching his ears.

"Oh, you little menace!" I laugh as his tongue licks up my face. "I said stay! Stay!"

"Having fun?" Red chuckles, watching us before handing me a glass of Coke. "Sure you don't want something stronger?"

"Not yet." I straighten, lighting a cigarette before taking the glass. "I'm clean."

"I got that. But whiskey's not dope."

"Whiskey leads to dope. And I'm not going there."

Red nods, remembering all too well the mess I was in a few months back—how he had to drag my wasted ass out of the filthiest clubs. I have no intention of going down that road again.

"Hey, Cash, Red, you playing?" Sergio calls from the makeshift court, tossing the ball.

I hesitate, my gaze flicking toward the house.

I realize I've been waiting for Reenah. Half an hour.

The party started an hour ago, and they're still not here.

No way she'd skip out—she likes parties. I've learned that much.

Is she taking her time getting ready for me?

Anticipation crackles beneath my skin. The thought of her stepping out in some tiny, barely-there swimsuit sends a rush of heat straight to my groin. I've seen her in shorts. I've seen her in a thong. But somehow, it never gets old.

I exhale sharply and turn back toward the game. As I pass a couple of bimbos, I slap their asses. The silicone dolls giggle, but scatter like flies when Kurt barks at them.

"Good boy!" I laugh, setting my drink down before stepping onto the court.

Ten minutes in, I'm just getting warmed up—playing half-assed to loosen my muscles.

Then, as I serve the ball, I notice something—everyone just freezes.

My powerful serve smashes straight into Sergio's head.

"Aw, fuck!" he yells.

"You'd do better if you played instead of gawking, dumbass."

"I wasn't gawking!"

The guys hoot, all of them fixated on something.

I follow their drooling gazes.

Rie strides alongside the pool like a fucking Amazon.