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I hated the smell when we arrived, but with a few more drinks and a few more songs, I don’t mind it nearly as much. What I’m loving the most is that the rumors are true. Army boys do buy drinks and they are glorious dancers.
“You know what I love?” I say to Addison as she wraps her arms around my neck in the middle of the dance floor. We start to slow dance with each other during a song that has too many beats and too many chords.
“What?” Strands of her blond hair stick to her face and a sheen of sweat covers her exposed skin.
“I am not number five tonight!”
“No, brat, you are not! You, girl, are number one!”
We take each other’s hands and spin like we did when we were six, except then it was in my backyard and the sun was shining. We slow, and when I search the room for Reagan, the world around me fades. I become concreted to the floor and my breathing hitches. He’s here.
Blond hair. Blue eyes. A body so ripped that every girl near him is gaping. It’s Razor. He’s in the corner on the opposite side of the room. His elbows rest on a raised table, and he’s staring at me.
As always, he’s the perfect mix of heart-stopping gorgeous and dangerous. His hair is styled so the longer bangs almost cover his eyes, but not quite. He wears his black biker cut and in the darkness it blends into the black T-shirt that hugs the muscles of his biceps.
My mouth dries out. I bet he can dance. I bet he could rival any Army boy here. I bet he’s every fantasy I’ve ever had and I bet he’s a fa
ntastic kisser.
I smile. He smiles. I melt.
Addison appears by my side and whispers in my ear, “What is up with you and Thomas Turner?”
I give her my best answer. “I don’t know.”
“He’s hot,” she says.
I agree, he is. I should stop looking at him, but I can’t, and I love that he hasn’t stopped watching me. He inclines his head as if he’s assessing my outfit. To show off my dress, I cock a hip and even lift my skirt like I’m about to perform a curtsy. I’m here to be seen, to be someone other than the Breanna everyone thinks they know, and I like being seen by Thomas Turner.
His response is a raised red plastic cup in my direction. The smile on my face grows and there’s a tingle in my blood as the corners of his mouth tip higher.
There’s a boldness I have in this moment I’ve never had before and I’m not done admiring all that Thomas Turner is. Not Thomas Turner—Razor of the Reign of Terror. “He’s trouble.”
“Sometimes a girl needs a little trouble.” Addison howls as she twirls me, breaking my connection with Razor. “I told you this year was going to be different.”
I’ve had three drinks tonight. My lips purse together. Maybe four. Is it normal to lose count? They were sweet and tasted like strawberries and I feel light on my feet and I also feel pretty.
I love my dress. It’s formfitting, except for the skirt, which ends above my knees and flares out at the hem. The dress is royal blue and it reminds me of the pretend games Addison and I used to play when we were five. We dreamed we were princesses and this dress swishes in a way that makes me grin. What I really love is how a few guys have studied me like I was someone worth giving their attention to.
I keep spinning, but my feet don’t and then my entire body jerks into something hard.
“Hi.” The voice is gravelly, and when I glance up, I frown. Yes, this place is wall-to-wall testosterone from the Army base and, yes, we are not the sole girls from school who decided this was the first pit stop for senior year, but boys from school should not be invited.
Well, Razor can be invited, but that’s because he’s the type of guy who would show because he wasn’t invited.
“Hi.” I push away from Kyle Hewitt. It’s not that Kyle’s disgusting to look at. He’s far from it. He has that grown-man baby face so many girls fall for, but after orientation I associate him with Satan.
“Do your parents know you’re here?” he asks.
“Do yours?” I retort.
He smirks as he leans back against the bar. We’re in the corner and beside him his friends regard me as they always do, as if they barely recognize me.
“I’m sorry I lost my temper the other night,” Kyle says. “It doesn’t make what I did right, but I’ve been under pressure. From my coach, from my teachers, from my parents...”
Kyle pauses on parents and there’s a shifting in the hate I have for him. I never entertained much thought involving Kyle until he cornered me and asked me to write his papers in exchange for money. But when he brings up parental expectations—family expectations—I can understand.
How many times have I wanted to scream at my parents that I’m not a live-in nanny nor their prize-winning state fair intelligent pumpkin, but never do? “It’s okay.”
