All The Wild Ones | Wildfire Series

Taking Shots

GRAYSON

I would be the first to admit that I was blessed with some natural talent in life.

But that didn't mean I became a leading wide receiver and multi-instrumental musician without a bit of drive. Alright, a lot of drive. When I wanted something, I went after it.

And I wanted Nessa Elez.

It was hard to pinpoint precisely why. Maybe it was because she somehow made that ugly hat look cute. Or maybe it was because she was so easy to read despite trying adorably hard to be a closed book. It might have had something to do with how she dared to sit in our stands and cheer against us during the championship game. Who knew? I didn't, but I also didn't really need to.

I just needed to know what the hell to do about it.

Because even though I wanted to chase—like sprint—after this girl, I wasn't a dumbass. Nessa had no interest in giving me the time of day, and clearly, taking the bold approach wasn't working. If I walked up to her a third time, she'd probably just pack up and transfer schools. That was how much she didn't want to talk to me.

But shit. Nessa was everywhere.

In the student union. The dorm commons. Outside her dorm room, because as it turned out, we lived only five doors down from each other. The athletic center. The jam-packed corridors outside lecture halls.

And every time that I saw her, all I wanted was to walk up to her. Say hi. Like we were friends.

We weren't friends.

In fact, we might have been the opposite of friends. Because when I'd approached her in the student union last week, she looked at me like I was a Montague bursting into her Capulet tower.

So when I saw Nessa at a party the Tuesday night before Thanksgiving break, I didn't dare approach her. Didn't dare smile, wave, or acknowledge her presence. And it was too bad I didn't also have the self-control to not even dare to look at her. Because goddamn.

She liked layers. I'd noticed that. Skirts with tights and sweaters thrown haphazardly over collared shirts. On lazier days, it was graphic tees under oversized cardigans and jeans with holes.

But tonight Nessa wore a tight skirt with heeled boots and a shirt hanging off one shoulder, leaving it bare besides the exposed strap of a lacy bra. And the whole combination was just...goddamn.

She stood beside Beau, the chill-ass Asian dude who seemed perpetually unbothered and unapologetically happy in an almost weird sort of way. Happiness wasn't really the name of the game on college campuses, even with naive freshman who were all pressing snooze through their reality check wake-up call. But Beau's mood was infectious.

He was the life of the party—literally. This place would be dead without him. He'd brought the speakers, the booze, the playlist. Everything. I wanted to know how the hell he even knew Julian.

This was Jules' crappy house, and he only associated with other football players and his dealer. The guy wasn't pretentious, though; Julian Briggs was just a lazy shithead who never went anywhere.

But now Julian and Beau were standing in the cramped living room with their arms around each other's shoulders, slinging back beers like the world was ending and it was their last chance to drink alcohol. They laughed together liked they'd been friends since the third grade. And Nessa watched them, a sly smile on her face, barely hidden by a red Solo cup.

I turned around, shoving down the annoying jealousy that Julian had Nessa's attention.

Well, and Beau. But that didn't bother me. When it came to Nessa, he threw out big bro vibes, narrowing his eyes at any guy that leered a little too creepily at his friend.