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As I wait in line at the keg, I can feel the eyes on me. From everywhere. I scan the crowd and curse Tori under my breath. Of course they're staring--with my ass cheeks peeking out of my lacy shorts and the cleavage revealed within the cowl of the low-cut halter. Where we usually go out, no one would think twice about what I'm wearing. Not here. I'm getting scanned up and down, like they're trying to decide if they should threaten me to stay away from their boyfriends or offer me fifty for twenty minutes in the backseat.
"Who are you, and why are you at my party?"
There's a guy in a blue polo shirt and khaki shorts next to me. He looks like most of the guys here--throw in a baseball hat here or there or a random button-down hanging over a T-shirt.
"I'm here for the free beer," I tell him with a sardonic smile.
He smiles back. "Then let's make that happen. Excuse me, guys," he tells everyone waiting ahead of me in line. "The lady needs a beer."
A moment later, he hands me a filled red Solo cup. "Here you go."
"Thank you." I take it from him and offer a small smile, not enough to encourage him to stick around.
"My name's Blake. Let me know if you need anything, okay?" And, just like that, he's rushing off to help some other girl in need of a shot. "Whitney, I have Fireball for you!"
"Who are you anyway?" a girl asks from behind me. "Who'd you come here with?"
It's not a friendly let-me-introduce-myself question. It's a total territorial you-have-some-nerve-showing-up-here question.
"It's not about who I came here with," I tell her with a smirk. "You should be worried about who I leave with."
She gasps in mock horror. I fight the urge to roll my eyes.
I enter the house and find an empty spot in the corner of the kitchen. I don't bother looking for Tori and Lincoln. I'm not third-wheeling it. I'm prepared to hang out here, lean against the counter and observe the spectacle happening around me 'til it's time to go.
"Where are you from?"
"Can you believe she even thinks she has a chance with him?"
"You're not from Oaklawn, right? I know I'd remember you."
"And did you see what she's wearing? That diet's definitely not working."
"Oh shit!"
Girls scream as a drunken ass collides with them, barely making it in time to throw up in the sink.
I'm a captive audience to the Middle America drama. The gossip. The terrible pop music blaring through the speakers. The amateurs who can't handle what's in their cups. The couple pressed against the wall, making out, his hand up her shirt. And, yes, I'm aware a guy's standing next to me, trying to get me to talk to him.
"What did you say your name was?"
When he refuses to take a hint after I continue to blatantly ignore him, I release an impatient breath and say to his face, "Go away."
He looks offended. I laugh at him.
"Bitch."
"Undeniably," I agree.
He scowls and shoves a path to the living room where a group of girls are failing to make dancing happen.
And then ... I see his bright blue eyes. The same captivating shade as his brother. And, most likely, their father's. The eyes that wouldn't look away when he saw me at school earlier today and that hold me in place now.
He smiles, and a deep dimple creases his right cheek.
"Shit," I breathe out.
He remains focused on me as he navigates the crowd. People talk to him along the way. He responds but doesn't take his eyes off me and never stops moving in my direction. I am pinned to this spot, anticipating his approach until he's finally in front of me. And I mean right in front of me. His hand rests on the counter next to my waist as he bends down, and his lips brush my ear.
