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“I dare you,” Ispit back.
No one has ever tried to get me into bed, and I would do it if I wanted to, but I won’t be some trophy. He can try.
And how the hell did he know I was still a virgin?
He chuckles. “The house is yours,” he tells me. “School tomorrow. I’ll pick you up at seven.” He starts to leave, tossing a final thought over his shoulder. “If you’re still here.”
He opens the door, turning for just a moment to fling my phone back to me. I catch it, watching as he closes the door, and I rush up to lock it behind him.
Asshole.
I turn, crashing back against the door. What the hell? They have parents. The school is run by adults. Is no one worried about a liability issue? This is sanctioned by the school board and the parents. The teachers are expecting someone. Wouldn’t the administration already have a host family ready?
I’ll have to tell them where I’m living when I show up to the school tomorrow. They’ll sort it out then.
I listen to the party outside, a couple of engines rumbling and fading away, and I drift my gaze around the foyer and up the stairs.
Wallpaper peels from the walls, dust coats the modest chandelier above my head, and the varnish is worn away on every step up to the second floor. There are no pictures on the walls or furniture in the entryway, and I push off, strolling into the living room.
I’m anxious to see if there’s a bed upstairs, but I want to make sure the back door and windows are locked.
I should call Aro.
I should call my mom and have her pick me up.
At the very least, I know I’m safe at home. Maybe this isn’t worth it.
Checking the living room, I secure one window, but the other latch won’t slide. I lock eyes with some dude outside as he laughs and drinks with his friends. He flips me off, and I yank the curtains closed like it does any good, because they’re sheer and full of holes, so he can still see me. I can practically feel his amusement as I spin around and head into the kitchen.
I open up the two-door fridge, the off-white color yellowed with age, with wood-grain accents on the handles popular way before my parents were born.
There’s a plastic pitcher of something red on the top shelf, a loaf of bread half gone, and a small container of butter. I take it out and open it, seeing knife marks in the spread and toast crumbs. Mold grows around the edges of the container, and I put it back, grabbing the bread. Turning over the package in my hands, all I see is green inside. I throw it back in the fridge and close the door, taking another look around.
That food isn’t recent, but it’s not twenty years old, either.
The house, from what I’ve seen so far, isn’t comfortable or very clean, but it doesn’t look mistreated. Not like it’s used by teenagers who just want to drink and practice their graffiti, or by squatters who hole up here day in and day out.
A table sits in the small room on the other side of the kitchen, an old Ethan Allen six-seater. Windows show trees behind the house, but I don’t walk over to investigate further.
I check all the windows and the back door before heading through the kitchen, into the living room again, and toward the foyer.
I start up the stairs, dialing Aro back, but before I can send the call, the floor above me creaks.
I halt.
Gripping the railing with one hand and my phone with the other, I listen.
That sounded like a footstep.
I train my ears, waiting for it again, but nothing happens.
It’s probably a prank.
I rock back and forth a little, because I don’t want to stay, but the last thing I want to do is swallow my pride and run, either.
It’s a prank. I take another step, a creak vibrating under my foot, and I sigh, continuing up. Houses creak. Maybe it was just the stairs.
Upstairs, the walls are just as empty, except for the five closed doors. If anyone is in the house, they’re behind one of them.
