Page 47 of The Sun
“Ladies!” Ben swooped in like a stealthy hawk, wrapping his arms around us both. “Welcome to the party.” He led us to the large, white Igloo cooler placed on the kitchen island where orange slices and pineapple chunks floated on top of a red concoction.
The pungent smell of vodka wafted up, and I shook my head. “No thanks. DD.”
“Man, you and McClure are just alike.” He laughed.
Daisy took a cup, gagging as soon as she tasted it. “God, I could set my saliva on fire now.”
“Just Kool-Aid and some Aristocrat. Well. . .” Ben jerked his chin toward the empty bottles on the stove beside him. “Like two liters of Aristocrat.”
“It is what it is.” With that, Daisy tipped the drink back.
The music booming from the living room cut off just as someone’s hand crept around my waist. “There you are,” Brandon said.
He gave me a once over, his lips curving in a pleased smile. “That’s cute. Very rocker-esque.”
“Thanks.” I debated whether I should kiss his cheek or hug him or just stand there.
“You know,” Daisy said, already ladling more of that horrific drink into her cup. “I’ve always told Sunny she looks like a rock star and a pageant queen had a baby.”
Brandon tilted his head like he needed to consider the comparison for a second. Then he nodded. “Totally see it.” He motioned to my empty hands. “Not drinking tonight?”
“Uh. No. I’m good.”
Laughing, he took a bottle of water from the fridge and handed it to me. “And I bestow upon thee, the official I’m-the-designated-driver-drink.” He kissed my cheek then pushed a strand of hair behind my ear.
The first staccato beats of drums and electric keyboard filled the room, and Brandon snapped along to the beginning notes of “Billie Jean.”
“God, Thomas. You and this eighties shit,” Ben shouted before grabbing Daisy’s hand. Looking back, she tugged at the shoulders of her shirt while mouthingthe jacketbefore Ben dragged her from the room.
Brandon was in full Jackson mode, hip thrust, hand flourish—everything. I couldn’t help but laugh when he took my hand and yanked me to him. “Let’s go dance.”
“Oh,” I placed my palms against his chest. “I don’t. . .”
He rolled his eyes. “Don’t tell me you’re embarrassed. You don’t look like the kinda girl who gets embarrassed easily.” He tugged on my arm. “Besides, everyone else is shitfaced. We’ll be the best dancers in there.”
The night wore on.The house filled with more people with each hour that passed. By eleven, a group of jocks sat at the kitchen table playing beer pong, the stoners had congregated on the back porch passing joint after joint, and the inside of Thomas’ house was nothing but a wall of bodies. It seemed like every high school student from the surrounding tri-state area had shown up.
After enough beers, rival schools seemed to set their differences aside. On the weekends, we weren’t Robertsdale or Lockhart students, we were teenagers trying to exercise rebellious independence via cheap booze and meaningful hookups.
I had somehow ended up on my fourth bottle of water playing Never Have I Ever with a group of strangers while sandwiched between Daisy and Brandon.
“All right. All right.” The emo girl from my history class—who as it turned out was very smiley when she wasn’t at school—clapped her hands together. “Never have I ever hooked up with a friend. Like a friend-friend, not some friends with benefits crap.”
Everyone glanced around for a second. Emo Girl took the first and only swig.
“Wow. Prudes,” she whispered.
Some Lockhart guy with perfectly spiked blond hair stepped into the doorway. He caught the attention of every girl in that room, including Miss Emo. There aren’t many guys I would refer to as pretty, but that guy, he was beautiful. Straight nose. Perfect jaw and full lips. All I could think was he may very well end up being Fort Morgan’s first high-end fashion model.
Clearing his throat, he leaned against the wall outside the room, his pale blue eyes locked on Brandon. I bristled. Guys only looked at other guys with that cold expression if they intended to beat the crap out of them. I noticed Brandon glance at him from the corner of his eye then shift in his seat, rubbing his palms over the legs of his jeans.
After a second, Pretty Boy pushed off the wall and disappeared into another room.
“You okay?” I asked.
“Yeah.”
“That guy was looking at you weird.”
