Tragic

Chapter Two: Better Off

Hunter

Elliot Monroe is off-limits to me. I say this like a mantra while she lounges causally across the pool from me. She takes her time rubbing tanning oil down those long, sexy legs of hers, too. I'm not watching or anything. I would never do that.

Fog is starting to form in the corners of my sunglasses, so I push them further up on my nose. I lean back in the lounge chair and rest my elbow on the armrest. The beer clenched in my hand is getting warmer by the second so I take a long drink. She takes this particular time to look over at me and smile. I swallow hard and tip my bottle to her. If I'm not mistaken, I think I saw a blush on those cheeks. Maybe it's wishful thinking, but—damn, she's been looking good lately. I take that back. She's always looked good, like really smoking hot—but she's Ollie's little sister.

He's been my best friend, my ride or fucking die, for the past six years. I moved here sophomore year of high school from Texas after my parents got divorced. My relationship with my mom hasn't been the same since, so I've basically been riding couches the entire time.

Ollie's been trying to take me in like a lost puppy ever since. I think he's lonely here in this insanely large house all by himself. His parents are almost never here and Elliot—well, Elliot's always gone, too. Or at least she was. Now that her and Judah have this bullshit agreement going on, she's been spending the majority of her time running or moping around the pool.

This is very odd for her. This is the type of girl who was constantly surrounded by friends and attention since she was old enough to bat those hazel eyes at someone. She may be a girl, but she has the swagger of a seasoned player. She flirts just by walking into a room—and pretends not to notice.

She notices alright.

She fucking loves it.

That's not the only problem. She's my best friend, too. I've been sitting up late nights with her, missing frat parties and every other fun thing college guys do, to listen to her complain about some thankless jock. I'm not complaining or anything. Being there for Elliot isn't some annoying task I've been forced to do—it's something I need to do. I care about his girls in ways I can't describe. She's so much more on the inside than she portrays on the outside and I think I'm one of the only ones who get to see it.

I fucking love that.

There's nothing sexier than a fine ass girl who's also cool to hang out with. I could talk to her endlessly and never get bored. I can't count how many nights I've fallen asleep to the sound of her just breathing because she fell asleep first. If I'm being honest, that's probably the biggest reason I can never have Elliot. I genuinely respect her. So much so that keeping her from getting too close is probably the best thing I could ever do for her.

She deserves better than me—and a million fucking times better than Judah Holloway. That kid's the biggest fucking tool I've ever seen. He's the walking definition of the hometown hero, quarterback peaking in high school. That's a lie actually. He's going to Cornell University to study architecture like his father. If being a football legend wasn't enough, he's also smart.

Not smart enough to keep her happy though.

"Get up, man," Ollie says from behind me.

I turn my head to see Oliver standing with his hands on his hips, a frustrated expression on his face. Oh yeah—tennis.

I tilt back the rest of my beer in once fast gulp and set my empty bottle on the cement patio before pushing up from the chair. "You took forever to get ready. What the fuck were you doing?"