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The hallway is littered with people talking, kissing, and grinding on each other, and it takes some creative maneuvering to get around them and not lose Shiloh in the chaos.
When he pulls me into an open doorway, I’m assaulted by the smell of cigarette smoke and weed, but once my eyes adjust to the constant haze of smoke, I can make out what looks like six or seven people hanging about, passing a bottle of hard liquor between them.
Shit, no. Beer is enough by itself to knock Shiloh on his ass—one swig of that shit and he’ll be down for the count all day tomorrow.
“Loh—” but he shrugs out of my hold and bounds into the room, wrapping himself around some dark haired girl with pink and blue streaks in her hair. She looks to be around our age and pats him on the head as he settles into her side. “You want him?”
She smiles up at me, a sort of distant look in her eyes that most party goers have about now, and she rests her head on his.
“Nah. My brother would kill me for taking in another stray.”
Shiloh laughs into her shoulder and lifts his head enough to kiss her cheek. “I’m surprised he let you come.”
“Gotta convince me not to drop out somehow.”
Some frat boy with a backwards ball cap and no clothes aside from a pair of jeans barely hanging onto his ass leans over and holds out the bottle of—jesus, straight-ass vodka—to the girl.
“You’re up, V.”
She grabs the bottle and eyeballs the room, then nudges Shiloh with her shoulder. “Dare me.”
That seems to spur him from the drunken nap he was falling into it, eyes looking scarily alert as they ping to mine.
“Shiloh.” I sigh, knowing exactly where his mind is going.
He clears his throat and waves the other guy off, who just shrugs and joins a handful of stoners in the corner. Shiloh rubs his hands together and rocks on his heels.
“Atty, this is my friend, V. Go ahead and ask her what it stands for.”
I only roll my eyes a little, offering the girl a smile. “Hi, V. I’m Atlas. What’s the initial stand for?”
“Vulture.”
I raise my brow, and she tips the bottle up to pour a sip in her mouth, face scrunched up as she sets it on the windowsill behind her.
“Don’t know what’s on my birth certificate. Too many coffee stains and alcohol spills to read. My brother started calling me Vulture when I was three or four because I was really good at poaching leftovers and stuff from Mom and Dad without them finding out.”
Valuable skill, especially if you’re like me and come from a family of seven and are stuck somewhere in the middle of them all.
Shiloh smacks V on the shoulder, but she doesn’t even flinch, just gives him an unimpressed eye roll. “You want my dare or not?”
“Dare away, sweet stuff,” she says, hopping onto the little edge jutting from the window.
“I dare you,” he says slowly, lips curving into a smirk, “to make out with Atty.”
Yup. Easy to read. Even with a head full of cotton balls, Shiloh still manages to focus on getting me laid.
Christ.
Vulture laughs but arches her brow in challenge like somehow I’m the one with a dare to uphold. She reaches out and tugs on my t-shirt, pulling me so I stand between her legs. She’s so small I have to half bend over to press my mouth to hers.
Kissing her feels like kissing anyone. It’s soft, it’s nice, and when she winds an arm around my neck I put my hand on her hip because that’s how this dance goes. Neither of us makes the kiss any more than a few swipes of tongue before she ducks away, and I hope she doesn’t see the relief on my face.
It’s not bad; it’s just weird. Kissing strangers has never really done it for me, but it often gets Shiloh off my back, so they’re pretty much the only kisses I get.
I barely take a breath and get a step away before the bottle is shoved in my hands, and I immediately shake my head at Shiloh.
“I’m not sleeping with her. Don’t even think about it. No offense, V. You seem nice enough.”
