Page 47 of Detour

“Some party.”

“Will you come upstairs with me?”

“I live upstairs.”

“No, to my place.”

“So I can meet more of your friends?” I give him a pointed look. “I don’t think they like me.”

“Fuck them.”

“No, thanks. I’m tired.” His hand—his bloody hand—shoots out, stopping me before I can even try to escape. “Oh my god. That needs to be cleaned.” I grab at it but he pulls the damn thing back. The other hand snakes around my waist, bringing me against his front. His alcohol tinted breath dances over my face.

“Come upstairs with me,” he pleads.

“Get one of your friends to clean your hand.”

“I’ll kick them all out and then you’ll have to,” he jokes—I think. “Come with me.”

“You’re crazy.”

“You’re beautiful,” he counters, making my heart squeeze. Never getting compliments growing up has made me suspicious whenever one is given to me. The problem is Coty sounds and acts sincere and while I still wonder if he means it, I realize I want him to.

I push against his chest, asking him to release me. Not yet finished, he drags his hand down my arm, reaching my hand. Our fingers lace together like it’s the most natural thing in the world, then he leads me upstairs.

He stops at his door and waits. He’s leaving the decision up to me—again. Always.

Shaking my head, I turn the knob. “I’ll help clean it, then I’m leaving.”

Coty remains close behind, keeping our hands entwined as we enter. Almost instantly, there’s a whoop from across the room. Beckett.

“If I knew that’s all it took to get you to party with us, I would’ve been knocking people out this whole time.”

“You’re a moron,” I joke.

He somehow disentangles the girl attached to his side and makes his way over to us. I watch in wonder as people move aside for his mountainous form.

“What can I get you to drink?”

I blanch, remembering his idea of a drink.

“I’m just here to take care of this,” I say, gesturing to Coty’s bloodied hand with my free one.

His eyes grow wide. “Oh, shit. I’ll get the vodka.”

“I’m not using vodka. I need soap and water.” I roll my eyes.

“The vodka’s for me.” Coty grabs the bottle from Beckett and nudges me forward. “We can use the bathroom.”

Oh. Yeah, I knew that.

Tucked away in the bathroom, Dermot Kennedy’s “Power Over Me” drifts from down the hall.

Coty closes the door, muffling the song and crowd noise significantly. Next, I’m spun and pressed against said door, Coty’s face burrowing into the crook of my neck.

“Where have you been?”

Him breathing me in like a man drowning makes everything else fade away.