RIVALS | MxM MPreg

Chapter 7

Landon cleared his throat before fixing the collar of his brown plaid shirt as he stood in front of Jackson's Malibu beachfront house, his arm tightened from where he clutched a gift box. Although he didn't know this Luis Castillo, he still brought a present, not wanting to appear disrespectful.

For a long moment, he just stood in place, his feet etched into the ground as he stared at the concrete structure.

Jackson had transformed the whole property into a party-central. Neon lights of blue, green, and red flashed everywhere, adding more blindness to Landon's already poor vision. Everyone had either glowing face paint, or glow sticks attached to their bodies—most of them had both. They were all youngsters in their early twenties, and Landon had once again felt out of place like at the after-party. They dressed vulgarly to his liking, barely anything covered them, and it seemed more like a high school frat party than a birthday party for adults. Cheap beers sunk up the air and music echoed loud, possibly polluting an entire section away from the house.

The veteran took a deep exhale before he decided to go inside. Annoying Trap music shattered his eardrums from the inside, and for a hot minute he regretted coming. He should've waited for another day, tomorrow wouldn't hurt. It wasn't like they'd be able to have a conversation anyway.

As he navigated through the pulsating crowd of only youngsters, he thought about turning around and leaving because the rookie didn't even know he was there. However, in the blink of an eye, a young woman—who wasn't watching where she was going—slammed into him. He tripped, nearly falling over before steadying himself. And when he came to, she had already disappeared into the crowd without the decency to say sorry.

Yes, he concluded, he should go.

Just as he was about to retreat from the house and pretend this never happened, a familiar face caught sight of him. "Landon McCoy!" he waved, beckoning him to a packed table. "Come on over here, Mr. McCoy!"

Landon didn't know any of them, he knew the person who shouted his name though. It was Ethan Smith, a twenty-three-year-old rookie racer who came from Austria. He had raced with him once two months ago, the younger man wasn't too bad, although he wasn't great either. Landon gave a polite smile while waving back before he went over, hoping they could help him with Jackson's whereabouts...

With great difficulty, he squeezed through the sweaty bodies of party-goers on the dancefloor (or just Jackson's living area). The bass thumped against his chest like a relentless heartbeat as each step felt like a battle against the current. He felt like throwing up the further into the house he got, and he blamed the scent of alcohol along with everyone's pheromones that lingered in the air, mixing as one toxic brew. No one seemed the least bit affected by it though, then again, neither was he when he was their age.

Ethan's grin widened when he arrived, his enthusiasm a stark contrast to Landon's apparent daze. "Mr. McCoy, what are you doing here?!" Ethan exclaimed, clapping Landon on the back with a force that nearly sent him stumbling forward. His arm tightened around the gift. It was an expensive China set, so he didn't want it to break.

"I got invited," he replied, mustering a polite smile despite the overwhelming urge to retreat. No one at Ethan's table paid him any mind, which he was thankful for. "Am not sure how long I'll be stayin' though. You know where I can find Jackson?"

Ethan's eyes lit up with recognition. "I didn't know you and Jax were friends!?" he remarked, his voice barely audible over the din of the party.

We ain't, Landon wanted to add. Instead, he asked again—louder this time, "You know where I can find him?!"

Ethan downed his bottle of Corona before he nodded. "He's 'round here somewhere—don't worry about him—come drink with us!"

Landon's eyes wandered about the house. He didn't come to drink with people he barely knew, he should get going. Yet, before he could leave, Ethan tossed an arm over his shoulder and slotted a beer bottle in his hand. Well... He guessed he could use a drink before he gets talkin' to Jackson; only he knew what shame he was subjecting himself to.