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Sorrell is notably missing.
“I’d definitely hit that, too,” Seb says, pointing his beer at Ash. “And Beth’s been begging for your cock since summer. I have no idea why you haven’t fucked her, man. She looks fucking filthy. I can see her eating ass like a champ. I bet she’d stick that pretty little tongue of hers so far past your sphincter you’d find religion.”
“Please remind me why we’re friends again,” I growl.
“Because I make you less boring, Merchant. And, loathe as I am to admit this, you’re an attractive dude. I’m not saying you’re hotter thanme, but still. There are those of us out here wanting to get our dicks sucked, and your whole, ‘abstinence makes me interesting’ bullshit is making the rest of us look bad. All of these chicks are holding out for you. The moment you fuck just one ofthem, the others will settle for the rest ofus. It’s really only fair, asshole. Come on. Catch and release.”
“Don’t blame your inability to get laid on the fact that I don’t want to fuck everything that moves, West.”
“I just got done fucking Sawyer Smith. Ijusttold you that.”
“Then stop worrying about what I’m doing with my dick and gocleanyours.”
“Goddamn it. You are impossible to talk to,” Seb mutters, slamming his beer down onto the counter next to me. “I’m gonna go find Callum. He’s way more fun that you right now. Ineverthought I’d utter those words, Merchant.”
I laugh to myself as the bastard struts off, out of the kitchen and into the surging swell of bodies, dancing in the hallway.
This beer isn’t cutting it.
Not even close.
I drain the cup one more time (because where’s the sense in wasting perfectly good, watered down, piss-weak beer?) and then I go rifling in the cupboards for a rocks glass. A glass that an actual adult might drink from. I find one eventually, at the back of a cupboard, set back on the highest shelf. The glass is cut crystal, beautiful and probably very expensive. Kieran’s dad would go mad if he knew what I’m about to do, but he has no idea that Kieran’s even having a party tonight. Kieran’s nice enough but not so smart. He’s gone about this all wrong. His parents are staying at a hotel less than an hour away to celebrate their twentieth wedding anniversary. I can’t even begin to list all of the reasons why they might return home early, but there are a million and one of them, starting with, “We just wanted to sleep in our own bed.” They’re gonna get a shock when they realize there are a bunch of rutting teenagers wriggling around beneath their one thousand thread count Egyptian cotton sheets.
It takes a while to find the whiskey, but I persist because I know that thereiswhiskey.
A man like Kieran’s father doesn’t come home from a job like his and soothe his frayed nerves with a glass of fucking sweet tea. He also doesn’t lock his expensive shit in the liquor cabinet, where his wayward, asshole kid will inevitably get at it. No, he hides it in plain sight. Well, kind of. District Attorney Littlemore’s Scotch collection is in the laundry of all places, in a cupboard, hidden behind a stack of freshly folded towels. I don’t think this is the permanent location of his stash. Clearly, he figured that laundry was the one thing his sonwasn’tgoing to do while he was away and hid his liquor store in here for the time being.
I pour myself three fingers from the bottle of Balvennie and slip back into the kitchen, nursing the rocks glass like it’s the Holy Grail itself.
I stand apart from the crowd.
I watch the truth or dare game play out, bored to my back teeth, counting down the minutes to midnight—once the clock strikes twelve, I am fuckingout of here. I do my best not to think about Sorrell. Trying not to think about her is like trying not to be bound by the laws of nature, though. Try not to blink. Try not to breathe.
It’s impossible.
The ceiling fan overhead is dusty.
The whiskey sears my throat, scorching a pathway down to my stomach. I begin to feel comfortably numb.
There’s a dental appointment reminder card on the fridge for Kieran, for tomorrow morning at nine am. No way the fucker’s makingthat.
I finish my drink and help myself to another heavy pour, returning to my spot in the kitchen, leaning against the counter. By the time I’m halfway through my second glass, I’m feeling looser, a little less annoyed by the antics of my school friends. But only marginally. My heart seizes, clenching like a tight fist in the center of my chest, when Sorrell finally makes an appearance, dragged along behind Ashley as the girl with the bright blonde hair tugs her through the melee into the kitchen.
Sorrell’s eyes—mismatched and beautiful—are wild with energy. Her thick black hair flows in artful waves over her bare shoulders. The dress she’s wearing is tight and black, and—Jesus fucking H Christ—leaves nothing to the imagination. The fabric clings to her curves, accentuating her tits and her hips and her ass in a way that makes me want to groan out loud like some sex-starved caveman. I groan internally instead, training my expression into a blank façade, forcing my features to obey me and remain unaffected, but inside I am a raging inferno.
Sorrell never used to wear dresses, let alone tight, figure-hugging ones. Her favorite Nirvana t-shirt, and her ripped jeans, and her battered sneakers are missing tonight. She’s allowed Ashley to apply a little eyeliner and mascara. Her lips are painted a vivid, wicked red. She’s always been beautiful, without a shadow of a doubt, but tonight, standing in this overly fancy, boujee kitchen, every other girl in the room pales in comparison to her. They look drab and sallow—wilting dandelions, made utterly ordinary next to the delicate beauty of an orchid.
In short, she’s fucking breathtaking.
Her mismatched eyes meet mine, her attention snagging on me as her gaze passes over the room, and the wide, open-mouthed smile she wears fades to somethingmoreas her focus narrows on me. Ashley says something to her, but she’s too busy staring at me to answer. After a second, Ashley nudges her with an elbow, and Sorrell jerks, her gaze returning to her friend.
I’m basking in the sun one second, warmed down to my bones by the heat of her attention, and then cast into a frigid wasteland the next, robbed of the only thing capable of sustaining me. Ashley Rainer is the worst.
Speaking of Ashley, she tries to pour herself a drink from the mess of alcohol on the kitchen island, but one of the guys overseeing the game tells her she has to pay the tax first. In other words, do one of the dares first. She plucks a piece of folded paper from the bowl and opens it. The dare is lame. Show the most embarrassing photo on your cell phone or some shit. Ashley passes her phone around the group, a topless photo of herself displayed on the screen. The girl isnotembarrassed by the shot. She looks pretty fucking smug about it, actually. Sorrell rolls her eyes at her friend, laughing along with the rest of the group when Ashley throws her drink back like it’s a fucking shooter.
Sorrell doesn’t look as stoked to be playing their dumb game when they tell her to stick her hand into the bowl of dares, though.
Gingerly, she selects a piece of paper and unfolds it, setting it down on the island.
