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Kate walks through first. Takes the turn towards the kitchen, and she’s disappeared from Billie’s sight.
Billie pauses. She pauses just to tilt her head back and let out a heavy sigh, as though that’ll somehow help her survive the noise in the kitchen, the waist grabbing, the fucking polo shirts and pleated pants.
But the worst one of all—
If any of those fuckers asks her about Preston… or Carmine.
The second that name touches her mind, Billie squeezes her eyes shut and clenches her hands into fists. She only takes a moment, a short tick in time, before she pushes forward and feels somewhat braced for the chaos through the open doors.
It’s like walking into an unsupervised kindergarten with kids hopped up on Kool-Aid. She’s barely through the doorway when a can of beer whizzes over her head.
Instinctively, she ducks.
But there’s no need to do so much as flinch. Dick (Richard, of course) has propelled himself off the only still-standing chair on the other side of the dining room and taken a football dive for the beer.
He catches it midair.
There’s an uproar of applause—
Then a crash as he slams, hard, into fallen chairs.
Billie just throws him a weary look. One that doesn’t do much as shield a fraction of how she feels about these frat boys on Rich Hill.
Dick rolls onto his back with a groan. The wooden leg of the chair beside him is snapped clean off. But he just wears a dazed grin that tells of more than beer, and blinks up at her. “B-Dog!”
And there it is. She’s announced to the group.
Unwillingness keeps her lashes low over tired blue eyes with edges of bloodshot. With only a sweeping glance over at the kitchen, she spots Trevor, Michael and Kate.
Her best friend rummages through the open pantry door and piles snacks into a basket she’s scavenged from somewhere. Always resourceful.
Michael digs through the pile of baggies, baggies filled with ex and coke, a little weed too.
Trevor leans against the doorframe of the pantry, arms folded over his chest. The look he offers Billie isn’t the most welcoming or friendly.
She’s a nuisance to him. She knows it. And he knows she thinks he’s a giant tit.
They just tolerate each other.
So he doesn’t so much as force a smile at her before he turns to face Kate and starts running his fingers down her back, leaning closer to whisper sweet nothings into her ear.
Billie takes advantage of the blind spot open to her now—and she heads straight for the stack of booze bottles on the edge of the kitchen counter. She’s quick to snatch up, not only the crystal-clear vodka cold to the touch, but an abandoned pack of Marlboro Golds too.
No one notices her sneak out to the foyer with the stolen stash.
She heads for the front door. It opens too easily, unlocked, and her lips push out into a purse. Not like there’s a killer on the loose or anything, right?
She slips out onto the porch, leaving the door ajar behind her.
And she stops in her tracks.
In a faint dusting of moonlight, smoking the red glow of a joint, is Preston. He’s part leaned part-sat on the edge of the porch railing.
Those frat bros inside wear Lacoste and Abercrombie. They dress for the day like they’re spending it on a golf course or at the nearest country club.
But Preston? He’s more casual in his style—casual Ralph Lauren and Prada. An effortless style of black slacks and a black long-sleeved shirt. He doesn’t bulk out at the gym either, he’s partial to martial arts instead, which makes the difference in their builds. Bulky Schwarzenegger wannabes versus a lean, muscular physique that reminds her more of Bruce Lee than some bodybuilder. Definitely more her type.
And he never tames his perfectly tousled curls.
