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While I’m waiting, I torture myself by watching the video Rome texted me last week, just so I can see how bad it really is. I watched the whole thing on Lake’s phone, but it was a much shorter version. At some point I’m going to have to explain myself, whether it’s to my parents or my peers. I need to analyze this so I know what it is I’m defending.
I tap play, holding my breath as it begins.
It’s obvious I’m fucked up beyond recognition. My eyes are slitted and glossed over, and I’m unsteady as hell on my feet. Anyone who watches this is going to assume I was drunk off my ass, when really, I was drugged by one of the people who might very well be in this video.
I’m dancing, waving my hands in the air while singing “Wild Ones” by Jessie Murph and Jelly Roll out of tune. It’s humiliating to watch, but also sort of captivating. The girl on this screen doesn’t have a care in the world. She’s not stressed about high school, or Stanford. Her mind isn’t focused on studying or getting good grades. She’s living for the moment, and loving every second of it.
I wish I could be more like her.
As the clip nears the end, I hear Rome’s voice. “What the hell are you doing?” I hear him say before there’s some shuffling and static noise. Then it stops.
I don’t know what to make of that. This part wasn’t on the clip that went viral. Was Rome recording, or was someone else?
Once the two-minute clip finishes, I watch it again. This time I pay attention to the reactions of everyone around me, wondering if one of them could be the reason I was so intoxicated.
I see Luke and Aiden talking, but nothing out of the ordinary. There’s about a dozen people I don’t know, most of whom are just laughing and drinking.
A couple guys shout up to me, but I pay them no attention.
Gage comes on the screen by the French doors to the deck, which I expected, considering I kicked him in the face for touching me. I straighten in my seat and scroll back when I see him pull open one of the doors to talk to someone.
I pause the video and stretch my fingers on the screen to zoom in.
My heart stills as I stare into the demonic green eyes of Winton Brooks. I’d remember those eyes anywhere. Not to mention that face. It’s him. It’s most definitely him.
But why would Gage be talking to Winton when he plays for their rival team? From what I’ve gathered, none of those guys can stand one another.
I let the video play again, watching intently as Gage bumps knuckles with Winton like they’re friends, just before he disappears out the door.
Could this be what Gage wanted me to come here to talk about? Did he see the video that went viral and noticed this part of the clip, too, and now he wants to explain himself? Or does he know Winton? Are they friends?
A sudden knock on my window has me fumbling my phone in my hands as I try not to drop it. I look out and see Gage standing there with his hands stuffed in the front pockets of his jeans.
My heart is beating so damn fast. I hesitate to roll my window down to talk to him, or just shift in reverse and leave.
Gage pulls one of his hands out of his pocket and motions for me to roll down the window. I panic, and do as I’m asked.
“Hey,” I say with a shaky breath. “This needs to be fast. I really should get going.”
Gage nods, his lips pressed into a white line. “It won’t take long. So, I know I said this wasn’t about the video, but it sort of is.”
“I figured.” I raise my eyebrows.
The look on his face speaks volumes. It’s a mixture of guilt and trepidation. A chill runs down my spine. Rome was right—Gage is not a good guy.
He drags his tongue over his teeth, smirking devilishly. Red flags are raised and I slowly move my hand to the door, ready to roll up the window. But just as it starts to go up, Gage places his hands over it, holding it down. I keep slamming my finger into it, hoping the motor is stronger than him. “Please stop. I have to go, Gage.”
“Get out of the car, Elodie.”
I crane my neck in confusion. “Excuse me?”
“You heard me.” He reaches his hand through the window and I gasp, grabbing him by the arm and squeezing with everything I’ve got.
“Stop!” I shout. “Just stop and let me go. Please.” I drag my nails down the skin of his bare arm, leaving a trail of marks.
Gage grabs the keys from the ignition and I pull his arm, trying like hell to pry my keys from his grip, but it’s useless.
“Please don’t do this,” I beg of him. “I won’t tell anyone you drugged me. I promise.”
