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“You want a drink?” a blonde-haired, preppy-looking guy asks me as we pass by the drink area.
“She’s good,” Alex answers for me.
“I can answer for myself,” I utter under my breath.
“I know you can,” he says. “But trust me; you don’t want to drink anything they’re serving.”
I resist the urge to wrap my arms around myself, but all the glances getting thrown in our direction are making me uneasy. Do they recognize me? I mean, I’m all for believing I can hold my own in a fight, but there’s a lot of freakin’ people here.
Get your shit together and stay calm.
“I don’t drink very often.” I tear my gaze off the people and look at Alex. “So that’s not a problem.”
He blinks at me. “You don’t drink?”
“I said I don’t drink very often. Not that I don’t drink at all.” I elbow someone as they stumble into me.
Alex eyes me over warily. “Really?”
“Yes, really. Why is that so surprising?”
His gaze skims over me. “Because you look like the kind of girl who could hold her own in a shot contest.”
I elevate a brow. “So I look like a drunk?”
“No, not at all.” He peers around at the mob of people then stuffs his hands inside his pockets. “But you do have a wild look to you. Not in a bad way or anything. You’re sexy, which I’m sure you know. But you don’t look innocent either. Or, well, most of you doesn’t. Your eyes sometimes do.” He glances at my face then looks at the crowd again.
I hold up a hand. “Dude, I’m far from innocent. And you really need to stop saying that kind of shit or I’m going to kick your ass.” I lower my hand to my side. “And don’t ever call me sexy again.”
The edges of his lips kick up into a smirk. “See? Wild.”
“I’m not wild. I’m tough because I have to be. And just because I am doesn’t mean I like to party. Not that I don’t spend a lot of time at parties. I do when I have to haul one of my sisters out of them or track down my father, who’s usually so trashed he can barely remember his name.”
“Oh, I get it now. You don’t party because you don’t want to end up like your dad.”
“Partly. I also don’t have time to.” I bite down on my tongue.
Seriously, why am I talking to him about this? This is a guy who admitted multiple times that he hates me. Plus, he also likes to party and then some.
We push our way out of the kitchen and into the living room where a spot has been cleared for dancing.
“Blaise is that way, too. But you probably already know that since you were with him the other day when he had to come pick up my high ass,” he says so casually, as if we’re talking about the weather.
I stick my elbows out to stop from getting bumped into. “You act like that’s not a big deal, but it is. Drug addictions … they not only destroy the addict’s life, but the lives of the people who care about them.”
“Don’t try to psych 101 me. I completely understand the consequences of my actions.” A drop of annoyance simmers in his tone.
“So, you just don’t care then?” I ask. When he shrugs, irritation stirs inside me. “If that’s the truth, then you’re a shitty person.”
His gives an indifferent shrug this time as he makes a path toward a wide stairway. “I’ve been called a lot worse.”
“I’m sure you have,” I say, and he grins.
I internally sigh.
And people say I put on a façade.
We grow quiet after that as we make our way up the stairs. At the top is a long, mostly vacant hallway lined with shut doors. The floor is littered with empty alcohol bottles and plastic cups, and in the far back corner, a group of people are passing around a joint.
