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Striding up, he grabs me and hauls me away from my friend. “Hey!” I yelp.
“Like I said, we got it from here,” he tells Noah. “Don’t come without an invitation again.”
And he wraps his arm around my waist, carrying me off.
He deposits me on the back of his bike, climbs in front of me, and starts the engine.
Farrow shoots off, leaving my bike behind, and I grab his waist on reflex, gazing back at Noah as we speed off.
The cool air nips at my face.
Farrow speeds way too fast back down to the river and over into the old fairgrounds. The bikes cruise down the dirt path toward a bonfire, and headlights appear ahead, people congregating in the empty field.
Everyone stops, and I yank my arms off Farrow’s waist.
“If he’s not home in one piece when I call…” I say.
He turns off the bike and climbs off. “As long as you remember, you’re not a guest. You’re a hostage.” He looks down at me. “Don’t ever go up to Phelan’s Throat without us again. Don’t goanywherewithout us again.”
I may as well be at home if I’m going to have a dad here too.
“And don’t speak to anyone here tonight,” he commands. “Understood? If I see you talking…”
“Then what?”
The others leave their bikes, and I swing my leg off.
“You know what,” Farrow says. “Aren’t you ever interested in seeing what happens when you actually do what you’re told for a change?”
I lift my chin.
He leans in when I don’t answer, and I spot Hunter to my right, far behind Farrow’s shoulder. He sits on the hood of his car, part of the circle of vehicles around the bonfire. People walk and dance, the fire glimmers in his eyes as he watches me and lifts a drink to his lips.
“Come on, virgin,” Farrow murmurs. “Try a change of pace.”
He takes my hand and leads me toward the party, Hunter’s eyes still on us as I take my hand back.
We stop in a crowd of people, the heat of the bonfire surrounding me but not quite hitting my face. Farrow and Calvin stand in front of me, looming several inches over my line of sight as music plays and whistles go off.
Something is happening by the bonfire, but I can’t see over the guys to tell what.
“Whoo!” T.C. howls, but I don’t know at what.
Followed by someone behind me. “Hell yeah!”
I try to peer around everyone, but a drink appears over my shoulder, something brown with ice. I glance up at Constin, the flesh of his Green Street scar raised and bumpy. It must’ve hurt.
“It’s not roofied,” he says, still holding it out to me.
Farrow stands next to me, taking a drink out of a beer that’s now magically in his hand. “You’re surrounded by six guys who all have sixty pounds of muscle on you,” he points out. “We wouldn’t need you drugged to get what we want.”
“And you only belong to one of us, anyway,” Calvin adds. “He’ll see you soon. I doubt he wants to waste any of his twelve nights left with you.”
What? Who?
Farrow chuckles as the crowd cheers, but no one says more.
I take the drink without thinking. I want to ask what they mean. Who do I belong to?
