I left the bathroom in my loose black boxers as I heard a knock on the door. I glanced at the clock on the wall and saw it was 8 p.m. I guessed it was probably my best friend. When I opened the door, I was proven right.
A pissed-off Jax Rivera stood there, frowning hard. His dark, short hair was messy, and his green eyes burned with anger. He was the same height as me—6’2”—and we had the exact same athletic build from playing American football. Unlike him, though, I had blue eyes and dirty-blond hair.
“Jax, what brings me the pleasure of—”
“I got stood up. Again, Ryder,” he said, voice thick with frustration.
Ryder Kane. That’s me.
