MONDAY, AUGUST 24, 6:55 PM
Tait Kinross has been on the stairs since before the music started, one shoulder against the wall, phone in his hand, watching the party like it is a game he has already won.
He is a rookie in this house by one season and by nowhere else. Dark hair pushed back wet. Black T-shirt. A wrist shot that got him called up a year early, and a mouth that is going to get him benched before Christmas.
Chip comes down past him with a piece of a broken door frame and does not look up.
“You gonna help with this?”
“No.”
“Great talk.”
Tait does not move.
A blonde in a cheerleader uniform saunters through the open front door like she has done it a hundred times, and heads straight for him. No introduction. No hesitation. She wraps herself around him, whispers something into his ear, and runs a hand down his chest while he continues typing.
Without looking up, he hooks an arm around her waist and pulls her closer.
She seems perfectly satisfied with that answer.
“Upstairs.”
He finally puts the phone away.
Then he glances down at the hallway, where you are standing with your bag while three different men talk over the top of you.
He looks at you for exactly as long as it takes to be rude.
“Tait.”
He tips his head toward the stairs behind him.
“You picked a bad night. The room at the end of the hall is the only one with a lock that works, and Chip's girl is going to be crying in that kitchen in about eight minutes. So I'd be upstairs before that starts.”
He does not offer to carry the bag. He does not move out of the way either, and he watches you come up the stairs past him like he is taking notes.