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Thankfully, Amelia interrupts the awkwardness like the godsend she is. “I need a drink. I'm parched. What alcohol do you have?”
“For you?” Easton narrows his eyes on her. “I have a juice box.”
“Really, E? Don't be such an alcoholic cock block.”
He nearly gags but covers his mouth with his fist. “If I ever hear the word cock come out of your mouth again, I'm going to lose my mind.”
Amelia finds a little badass inside that innocent brain of hers and smirks. “Cock. Big, hard, veiny cock.”
His face almost turns green as he puts his fingers in his ears and yells to drown out the sound of his sister's vulgar words. I can't help but laugh at their antics.
“Keg's in the kitchen,” he says with a sigh of defeat. “Just don't get carried away.”
“I make no promises,” she answers.
Grabbing my hand and leading me through the party, one thing is clear—if I want to be on Easton's radar, I'm going to need to get creative.
Okay, so maybe I'm not the most honest person in the world. For example, as Amelia and I lean against the wall with two jocks talking almost directly to our tits, I failed to mention my ulterior motive. It wasn't a lie, per se, but more an omission of truth. One that's working to our benefit, mind you, because what she has failed to notice is that Zayn and Easton have been staring at us for the last ten minutes. And as jock number two reaches up and tucks a strand of hair behind her ear, Easton snaps and storms our way.
“Oh, fuck no,” he growls as soon as he's close enough, pushing himself between his sister and the football player. “Not happening, Amelia.”
She allows her brother to pull her away and over to where Zayn stands. I ignore the guy leaning over me like I'm some kind of prey and focus solely on Amelia. It's clear Easton is yelling at her, but what we need is for him to leave her alone with Zayn. They've both had eyes for each other all night, but neither one of them will act on it with him there.
A brilliant idea comes to mind and I slip out from under this douchebag's arm and make my way toward them, mentally thanking my mom for the acting classes she forced me through when I was a kid. I cover my mouth and give Easton a panicked look.
“Bathroom,” I murmur, as if I'm going to be sick.
“Fucking freshmen,” he groans. “This way, come on.”
Following him through the house, I quickly glance back and wink at Amelia in a silent “you're welcome.” Like I said, I'm not the most honest person in the world, but my heart's always in the right place.
As we reach the bathroom, Easton steps aside and gestures for me to go in. “Your porcelain throne, princess.”
I play it up with ease as I sit down on the cold floor and rest my head back against the tub. “The room is spinning.”
He chuckles, and God, it's such a good sound. “That's what happens when you drink too much.”
Keeping my eyes closed, I hear him shut the door and turn on the water. A few moments pass before a damp washcloth is being rested against my forehead and Easton sits down on the edge of the tub next to me.
“Oh, you are my favorite person right now,” I moan.
“Don't let Amelia hear you say that. She almost failed kindergarten because she wouldn't share.”
Something tells me the only one between the two of them who would be pissed about sharing right now is him. If my plan worked, and as long as Amelia didn't pussy out, she and Zayn should be playing tonsil hockey right about now.
“Shh. Don't tell her,” I slur.
Easton snorts. “Your secret is safe with me.”
My eyes blink open, and I look up to find him already staring back at me. “And what about me? Am I safe with you?”
The corner of his mouth raises. “Definitely not.”
I try to think of a snappy comeback. Something flirty and fun that could drive this home. And if I hadn't drank so much, I'd probably be able to do it. But before I can say anything at all, the room starts actually spinning, and the next thing I know, I'm lunging to empty the contents of my stomach into the toilet.
Sexy, Ken. Real fucking sexy.
GRABBING AS MUCH of my stuff as I can find, I shove it into a duffel bag. I guess one of the benefits of dating someone with severe commitment issues for two years is that you don't leave too much behind. Still, there's the occasional pair of pajamas and a few sweatshirts lying around.
