𝐑𝐀𝐘𝐍𝐄 𝐌𝐈𝐋𝐋𝐄𝐑 is your average do-good lawyer on the rise to fame as a representative of young victims. Except her motivations aren't all that innocent. Rayne's only goal is to run from her past, to leave confrontation for the courtroom, no...
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𝗛is guests and himself sat in the living room, playing a stupid ass drinking game they played way too frequently during their college days. Family guy played on the flatscreen behind them as background noise while they faced each other, seated around the coffee table. They called this game 'iPhone Roulette' and the rules were easy. Basically, everyone playing placed their phones on the table, in a circle, and whoever's phone got a notification – based on how many – they'd be forced to drink. Sometimes they added in dares to continue if the game was growing boring, but the anxiety of who'd be drinking next, always kept it entertaining.
However, that was back when he was nineteen to twenty – one and stupid. Now, at his age, dealing with real life shit – this game couldn't be lamer.
"I'm bored," Quentin yawned.
"That's because no one texts you," Adalyn responded.
He rolled his eyes, but smiled, "Fair."
"I have to agree with Quen on this one," Christian chimed in.
"Of course you do," she laughed, sitting back into the couch, "—your phone is just as dry. Just like Quentin, no one texts you except your girlfriend. Too bad she's out getting entertained by another man while you're sitting here, reminiscing on your college days," she fake frowned.
"Addie, in the most disrespectful way – shut the fuck up," he cocked his head to the side.
"I mean – she had a point," Quentin shrugged, "You've been staring at your phone all night."
"That's normal."
"Is it also normal for your girlfriend to be over other dude's houses at—" Adalyn glanced down at her Apple watch, "Almost ten – eleven? Without a text?"
Christian clenched his jaw shut. The ironic bit was that it was normal. Not by choice – but he had no power over Rayne. She has spent nights at his place, consecutive ones at that. It wasn't like he didn't trust her because he did. It was that prissy, platinum box – dyed hair, motherfucker, Rueben.
He knew he thought so highly of himself simply because of his title. That he thought he was untouchable. That he could flirt, touch and more – than – likely coerce other people's girlfriends into sleeping with them.
If that was the case, he couldn't really blame Rayne. As much as he loved her, it was obvious.
She has always been easily manipulated.
"Drop it Ada," he said finally, looking away.
"Fine," she surrendered, exhaling.
He leaned back and sprawled against the carpet, feeling the earlier alcohol settle in his body. He looked at the ceiling numbly, blankly.
What does he have that I don't?
A phone buzzed against the fake wood. He climbed to his elbows and looked at the two across from him on the couch. Quentin's expression was still dull, it wasn't his phone. But Adalyn looked thrilled.
