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I tug open the downstairs fridge with a clatter of bottles and pull one out, twisting off the cap and downing half in a gulp. The sooner I get this party over with, the sooner I can go home.
Maybe I should just go home. Walker’s list isn’t going anywhere, and I haven’t been able to shake off the guilt from Madi calling me a “rodeo fuckboy,” even if I have been open with the girls I’ve been hooking up with. I’m still able to drive, and Pax’s basement is a walk-out. I could sneak out the back and no one would be the wiser. They might not even remember I was here, which is equal parts depressing and a relief.
Just when I’m about to leave, I hear multiple voices over loud footsteps tromping down the stairs. One of the voices is instantly familiar, and I bite back a curse. Christine.
“Case!” she startles as she flips on a light, her manicured hand pressed to her chest. She’s trailed by three guys around our age. “You scared the shit out of me. Are you sitting here alone in the dark?”
I bristle at the pity implied in her tone, even if that’s exactly what I’m doing.
“Not me.”
She narrows her eyes, her false lashes tangling in a way I used to find attractive, before she pulls open the fridge door.
“Oh! Jackpot, boys. We’ve got Lone Stars down here. Want one?” Her question is directed to a tall, vaguely familiar guy who might be rodeo-affiliated or might just be Texan. He seems to know who I am, and we exchange nods before I turn back to Christine.
“Those are mine.”
She looks dubious. “All of them?”
I shrug and grab a second before she huffs and picks something else, closing the fridge with a bump of her curvy, denim-clad hip.
“We’re gonna sit out on the patio. Pax said there’s one of those classy little propane fireplaces out there. Wanna join us, or are you going to stay drinking in the dark?”
I don’t even want this second beer. I just didn’t want her to give it to her friends. Christine and I hooked up early on in my personal crusade to sleep away my misery. She’s beautiful, sweet, and flirty on one hand, while also jealous and more than a little shallow on the other.
I’m plenty shallow enough already. Or at least I used to be.Even if I hadn’t made the one-time-only rule, I don’t need to date a carbon copy of myself. Christine has seen it as a sort of challenge ever since.
I’m not an idiot. I know it’s nothing to do with me so much as she likes the competition, but I’m too tired for games. It’s why I made the rule in the first place.
Ghost Walker gives a grunt of assessment in my brain, though I’m pretty sure in real life, he’d hate my fucking around. He’d say something about how it “wasn’t me” and “just because you can doesn’t mean you should.” But what is me, then? How do I know this isn’t me? I have no fucking clue who I am anymore.
I follow Christine and her posse of guys through the sliding door and out to the patio. By the time they have the gas pit lit, someone has already fetched me a third drink. I accept it gratefully, but don’t drink yet. I still haven’t decided if I want to stick around.
“The silo looks real pretty from here. What d’ya think, Case?” Christine asks, her smile wicked in the firelight.
My lips curve in a fake grin. “It’s a little cold for me, thanks.”
“Did you really try to jump off?” one of the guys asks. The one who nodded his greeting. Now that I think about it, his name might be Copper. Or Cooper. He definitely used to do rodeo with Walker and me in junior high. I don’t know the other two, but they perk up at his bold question.
One tries unsuccessfully to hide his snicker. “I heard you were too wasted to get down on your own.”
I glare.
Christine idly swirls her bottle in the dancing light. “My theory is it was a bid for attention.”
“I don’t need cheap stunts to get attention,” I say and take along draw from my beer. This third beer sloshes with the last two, and I realize I’m trapped here. I can’t drive like this, and staying here makes me want another drink to drown out everyone else.
“So youweresuicidal, then?” I barely hear the third guy’s question.
A louder group comes toward us from the edge of the yard, thankfully interrupting the conversation. They look pretty drunk even though it’s still early, and as they get closer, I realize they’re young. High school young. Maybe fifteen years old, tops.
“Who’s that?”
Christine sneers at the display as if she didn’t just graduate last spring. “Oh, that’s Pax’s little sister, Chelsea, and her friends. I hear she’s dating the Sutton brat.”
That gets my attention. “Sutton?”
Christine flicks her curled hair and shakes it out, sending the scent of expensive-smelling shampoo in my direction. “Yeah, you remember his sister? She was in our class? I think she graduated early or maybe got pregnant and dropped out. Winnie or something embarrassing like that?”
