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I was in my own world before, but now I’m fully zoned out, zoning in on the caged-up corner in the back as there’s something about dark and devious that cannot be ignored.
It’s fascinating.
They are fascinating, untamed and unapologetic.
It’s as if there’s this shadow that follows their every step, one I’m not sure everyone sees, daring me to slip into it, to step from my own, and view the world through their eyes, if only for a moment.
Or maybe it’s simply how Beretta has hopped up on the pop-up stage and joined the DJ behind her table that keeps me focused their way.
He smirks, allowing her to put her headphones on his ears and scoots over while showing him what she can do.
One thing about rich kid circles is they have no reservations when it comes to exploits and where to have them. The single ones all fuck each other, everyone knows it, but nobody talks about it, so the dance floor is already raging in racy rhythm.
Not that Beretta is paying much attention to that.
No, his eyes roam the room with a slow swivel of his head, pausing when his attention is pointed this way.
I squish my lips to the side to keep from smiling, but then he slips around the table, and in front of him, offering him a shoulder to grip as he hops down... Ransom and Arsen.
All three look this way.
Right at me.
People dance in the way, their faces coming in and out of view, their bodies blending into the stage at their backs.
But of course, black on black at a white wardrobe party.
Ransom lifts his chin, daring me to come closer.
I push to my feet, but before I can step toward them, they begin to curve left, leaving me to follow from my side of the crowd, down the hall and into a den-like room, set up as a designated smokers area—as if it doesn’t travel all through the house.
They mold themselves around a tall table and I step right up to it.
“Well, well.” I tip my head. “Ditch school but not the party. I’m almost surprised.”
“We had to let our lungs heal,” Beretta jokes, pulling out a joint and lifting it up.
“Hm, right, so the smoking room with a joint the size of a tube of lipstick is how you accomplish such a thing?”
“Depends, is that lipstick as red as the one you wore for us?” He grins.
A smile slips over my lips and I shake my head.
I turn to Ransom and take a step closer, but I don’t get a single word out before he’s shaking his head, a firm look in his eye, even if he does refuse to meet mine for longer than a second.
As I expected, he’s angry, and this isn’t the place to have the conversation, but I had to try.
His attention shifts, now focused over my shoulder, and the muscles in his neck flex.
He glares at me in warning when he notices I caught it, but I turn to look anyway, finding Amy, Sammie, and a girl whose name I don’t remember.
Amy flicks her eyes my way, offering a tight-lipped smile, and says something to her friends.
Unmistakable agitation radiates from the boys, and Beretta tries to erase it with a laugh. It’s strangled and fake, and he hangs his head, lifting only his eyes to mine. “Uh-oh, Jameson. Abort.”
I frown, already confused. “Abort?”
“Yeah and quick.”
My mouth opens slightly.
I don’t get it...
“Your friends, Trouble.” He shrugs, his face going slack. “You better play it cool, make an excuse to slip away.”
I blink and blink again.
Okay... wow.
Slowly, I push off the table, rubbing my lips together so I don’t jump right to the ‘fuck you,’ but it does nothing to help, so...
“Fuck you.” I take the drink from his palm, pour it into an abandoned glass on the tabletop, and slam it down as I back away.
I charge from the room, around the corner, but I’m caught by the wrist as I reach the dance floor. I’m spun around and jerked into Beretta’s chest. Ransom stands just over his left shoulder, Arsen to his right.
His hands fall to my hips, and he walks me backward.
“Not so fast,” he cautions. “What was that?”
My eyes widen. “Are you joking?”
As if pre-planned, Beretta slinks behind me, at my front.
It’s as if he believes it’s his, the place in front of me, he demands it time and time again.
Ransom’s eyes, they burn in question, tension tightening the edges and radiating off him at rapid speeds, begging to be soothed, but why? And of what?
“Were we wrong?” Beretta whispers in my ear. “Does she do as she pleases?”
My blood warms, my body arching into Ransom’s.
Pleased, the corner of his mouth lifts, but his eyes remain angry. His hands shoot out to grip my hips, inches up from where Beretta’s fingers rest. Slowly, we begin to move to the music.
