Harper's Rules 1 & 2

Chapter 29: Harper

Harper, meet closure.

Resolve steadied my shoulders, tipped up my chin, scanned my battlefield, and drew in a slow, deep breath.

Smells like cheap beer, sweaty testosterone, and disappointed vaginas.

The compromised phone conversation I'd had with Jake that brought me and Li to his home opener game, where admittedly we'd actually had a pretty good time, and me here tonight was tucked into my phone pocket. While Li rushed home for her it's-a-date-date with Kieran, I found myself surrounded with... testosterone-filled disappointment.

No, closure. Say it again Harper, closure.

As the warm, humid air mixed with loud conversations and throbbed party music surrounded me, I reminded myself of all the reasons I'd agreed when Jake asked that I attended his house party afterwards. After the game, a texted address and meet up time from him later, I weaved through a blurred scene of dancing, drinking, making out, and nearly an entire houseful of eyes on me.

With each step of my red, four-inch stiletto heels, which I'd chosen specifically if some asshole needed the spike driven into his foot as a direct 'fuck off' response, I pushed past a few sweaty bodies and made my way further inside this testosterone-festered fuck-fest.

So gross. It's practically dripping off the walls.

"Harper?"

My eyes took in a few vaguely familiar guys from Jake's UCLA visit, which included the brown-haired guy who'd gotten into a verbal pissing match with EJ.

What was his name? Biff? Miff? Stiff?

Thankfully, after I spoke with Ethan and Kieran at the UCLA party, EJ had shifted himself into my 'cool enough classmate' friendzone. He brought up Jake once though but, just the one threat from me against his manhood later, thankfully exercised enough common sense that he hadn't pushed me on the subject further.

One dick under control.

"Yeah," I confirmed and eyed the guy who leaned casually against the stairwell between makeout-living room and herpes-central-upstairs. His gray USC T-shirt, black jeans with ripped knees, and 'completely out of place for Southern California' gray beanie that sat sloppily on his head all screamed casual but none of me trusted any guy here who knew my name when I didn't know his.

With a quick step forward, I fixed my eyes on his and warned in a cool, even tone, "You have about three seconds to tell me where the fuck Jake Harrison is or -"

"Definitely Harper," he grumbled quietly and pointed at the kitchen. "He's outside at the bar, waiting for you. Told all of us that, if we saw you, to direct you out there."

"Of course that lazy ass did," I mumbled and rolled my eyes.

My feet led me down the hallway the guy had pointed down, through a decently large red solo infested kitchen, and out a sliding glass door onto a covered deck. Strong vibrations across my chest brought my attention to the fact my heart rate increased until it throbbed faster than the regulated music beats. With each visual scan, eyes that locked with mine or openly checked me out, internally I repeated one word like a mantra for my mission here tonight.

Closure.

Closure.

Close - fuck, there he is.

Once a fresh breeze of the night air hit my cheeks, I looked around and saw a few stools were positioned next to a high table covered with a black tablecloth in a makeshift bar area. With the exception of a few people who swooped in, congratulated each other on the game win, and grabbed drinks at their leisure, the bar area was completely empty except for one Jake Harrison.