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PROLOGUE
They did it again.
They won their first game of the season, he was top scorer as always, Whitey didn't give them too much grief before, during and after the game, and even Dan was somewhat satisfied by his performance on the court. They did it again, and all this could mean is –
Indeed.
Party time for the popular kids of Tree Hill High.
Nathan has been throwing them at his dad's beach house for as long as his selective memory goes, and of course tonight can't be an exception. He drummed up Tim – or Dim, as he recently resorted to calling his best friend (or personal slave – however you like it) – and Bevin to get the beer, his teammates and the cheerleaders because it's protocol, and an extra twenty people from Duke, whom he met not so long ago, as an attempt to up his cool points for whoever thinks he isn't cool enough already.
Although he doubts anyone would be that short-sighted.
He glances around the room and establishes that Dim and Bevin's beer supply is kicking in well amongst his peers. Holding his own cup in one hand, he pushes through the crowd and finds Peyton Sawyer, Tree Hill's residential emo kid who'd once been his girlfriend by some sick joke of the universe, standing next to the stereo. He can see she's simply dying to switch his favourite rap tune into something more… dark and whiny, which means that it's time to intervene.
"My house, my music," he smirks, leaning against the wall.
The blonde looks up and rolls her eyes upon seeing him. "Hi to you too, Nathan."
"Just saying," he shrugs, "we wouldn't want to turn this into a sobfest, now would we?"
"Of course we wouldn't," she replies in a dry tone that suggests she couldn't care less about the success rate of his party.
Come to think of it, she uses that tone to most of the things he says to her. Not that that's too baffling, considering the way he treated her during their relationship, but who is he to bother and make things right with Peyton Sawyer? She probably uses him as her subject for those strange sketches of hers – in all kinds of dying positions, lots of blood and lots of torture.
"So tell me, Peyton, do you have any idea where my girlfriend might be?" He asks, shaking the thoughts about her resentment towards him from his mind and replacing them with nicer ones.
"Girlfriend?"
To his annoyance she actually does look genuinely unknowing. "Yeah. Girlfriend."
"So who's the not so lucky girl then?"
"Are you being retarded on purpose?" He takes a sip from his cup. "You know, your best friend?"
Peyton cocks an eyebrow. "Brooke?"
"Yeah, Brooke," he repeats impatiently, growing tired of her already.
"Since when are you two going out?"
"Few days, give or take," he answers quickly, looking away from her to check if he doesn't see the girl in question. "Look, do you know where she is?"
She simply shakes her head.
He groans, wondering why he wasted all this time talking to her, drinks the rest of his drink, and walks away to get a refill. He blatantly ignores an overly excited Tim in the kitchen (apparently he made it to the second base with some chick or something – who gives a shit?) and makes his way upstairs, deciding it's his duty to check if she's not passed out cold somewhere.
Which is a perfectly sensible possibility.
Given that it's Brooke Davis and all.
"Dude," one of his college buddies puts a hand on Nathan's shoulder as he's climbed up all the stairs, "don't go in that room. There's some serious action going there."
"Shit, man. That's my parent's room," he responds, a rather cold feeling chilling through him. "I'm going to throw them out."
"Whatever," the boy, Thomas or something like that, says, moving past him. "They were pretty into it though."
Nathan never took advice. He's not going to start now.
The thing is that there's an uneasiness gnawing at his insides – an entirely unfamiliar occurrence – and he's not stupid enough to think this is because he's about to tell two idiots off. Earlier, in the shower after the game, he told everyone he was seeing Brooke, as in, dating her, because his teammates were dying to know after she'd given him that explicit victory kiss in public. Of course he'd been seeing her for a while now – because, come on, captain of the basketball team and the head cheerleader? – but no one had known about it, so didn't that kiss mean… It had to mean they were going out, right?
He sighs as he put his hand on the door knob.
The rapid beating of his heart indicates a nervousness he's never experienced before – at least not over a girl.
"Get out," he yells to the closed door. "This room isn't available!"
He hears some stumbling, whispering and vague laughing on the other side. Then a masculine voice shouts back, "Fuck off!"
"No, you fuck off," he hisses, frustrated.
He turns the door knob and in a very swift movement, the dark bedroom is laid out in front of him. His pupils aren't used to the lack of light yet, and it takes him a while before he can make out the contour of a naked form – male form – lying on top, disabling him to see who's underneath. Then he scowls at himself slightly, because, Jesus Christ, why is he being such a scared pussy? Brooke has him! Why would she crawl under some second rate Duke college loser frat guy or whatever?
He's about to leave again (parent's bedroom or not; he himself isn't exactly innocent in the matter either), but then he accidentally perceives the masculine voice muttering, "What an idiot."
That's it.
A surge of aggression sweeps through him. No one calls him an idiot! He is so going to kill that motherf –
That laughter.
That laughter.
He freezes.
It's feminine and raspy and sensual and distinct and he'd recognize it out of a million different sounds.
"Brooke?"
If this had been a movie, the laughter would've dropped dead. The girl wouldve been silent and mortified and would've looked at him in a God-I-Am-So-Fucked way (literally, figuratively – you get it). She would've jumped off the bed, taking a sheet to cover her naked body, and started begging the boyfriend if maybe there'd ever be a snowball's chance in hell for him to forgive her.
Unfortunately, this isn't a movie, and it's just his luck that Brooke Davis doesn't do clichés.
She replies in that hoarse voice of hers that never failes to take him in, her laughter still apparent, "Yeah, Nate?"
Casual.
And cruel.
His eyes are used to the dark now. He sees she's pushed off the guy and is facing him with her elbows popped under her head. He stares at her in disbelief and does everything in his might to not sputter, but he ends up doing so anyway. "What – I thought we had something here, Brooke!"
I thought we had something here, Brooke!
God, just how embarrassing is this?
"Oh, come on, baby, you of all people should know that you and I both aren't the type to have 'something'…"
He can't tear his gaze away as she's making it all sound like a joke. "But I – "
"Man, get the hint, will you?" interrupts the other guy. "We were kind of in the middle of something."
And so he's thinking of a thousand more things to say, to throw at her, but ends up slamming the door closed for the lack of a better solution. Because, what the hell, something is aching in his chest, a quick and painful stabbing, and he thinks –
She is so going to pay for this.
Just a prologue.
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