Page 38 of Faking the Goal

It's Taylor.

She's standing beside her beat-up Honda with her phone wedged between her ear and shoulder while she digs through her bag, apparently searching for her keys. She's dressed like she always is, like she could walk straight from campus into a nightclub without changing a damn thing. Leather jacket, heavy makeup, that bright red lipstick I fucking hate because my eyes always seem to find it.

"Yeah, yeah, I know." she says into her phone when she finally finds her keys. "Sorry I'm running late tonight."

I stop beside my truck.

It's after eight on a Wednesday.

She laughs softly at whatever the person says. "I'm leaving campus now. I'm on my way, promise."

My brows pull together.

For the past week, this woman has insisted that her evenings are completely unavailable. Every attempt we've made to find time for her fucking profile has gone nowhere because the hours she's free are the hours I'm in class or training, while the hours I'm finally available are apparently untouchable territory in Taylor Lewis' schedule. Yesterday, when I made the mistake of suggesting she couldn't meet after practice because she had another party to attend, she nearly took my head off.

Because that's all I do every night. Party until sunrise, recover for twenty minutes, then start all over again. God, what a life.

She'd made me feel like an asshole for assuming it.

Apparently I wasn't entirely wrong.

Taylor climbs into her Honda, and a few seconds later the engine sputters to life. I should get into my own truck, drive back to the Pond, shower, finish the manga I didn't get through tonight, and maybe finally open those twenty-six fucking questions I promised her I'd look at.

Instead, I stand there watching her taillights disappear toward the exit.

Where the hell does she go every night?

It's none of my business.

I know that.

I've spent the better part of a week reminding myself that whatever Taylor does when she isn't working on this feature has absolutely nothing to do with me.

So I get into my truck.

And when Taylor turns left at the intersection, I turn left too.

It takes me several seconds to realize what I've fucking done. By then, her Honda is three cars ahead of me, its left taillight slightly dimmer than the right, and my hands tighten around the steering wheel as common sense finally catches up.

What the fuck am I doing?

Following her?

I've officially lost my goddamn mind.

At the next light, I tell myself I'll turn around. I have absolutely no reason to know where she's going. If she wants to spend her night drinking herself stupid at some club, that's her business. If she's meeting some guy, that's definitely her business, and after last time I should know better than to involve myself in either.

The light turns green.

I keep following her.

Fine. I'm curious.

That's all this is.

She's spent the entire week acting like whatever she does at night is some immovable obligation, and after making me feel like a judgmental prick for assuming it was her party life getting in the way, I want to know what could possibly be so important. If she pulls into another frat house or nightclub, then at least I'll know I wasn't completely wrong about her. She's the one desperate to get this feature done, yet she can't spare one evening because getting drunk and finding somebody to take home apparently takes priority.

The thought leaves a sour taste in my mouth, although I can't decide whether I'm annoyed because she's irresponsible or because I'm already imagining her disappearing upstairs with another random asshole.