Page 29 of The Black Table
“Stop,” bellows Callahan. “Both of you. Just…”
Lanz backs up a step, palms in the air. “We just wanted to make sure you were okay.”
I square my shoulders. “I’ll be fine.” I always fucking am. “Just let me have some goddamn fun and I’ll behave.” I press my palms together in fake supplication. “Cross my heart and hope to die.”
I look from Lanz to Callahan, only half-joking in my plea. Not like I need their permission, but the last thing I want to do is drive them further into Kingston’s fealty. Rule number one of being an absolute prick: don’t make more enemies than necessary, and don’t make your enemies morefriendsthan necessary.
“Okay,” Lanz says at last. “But I think we should go with you.”
Oh,nowthey want to tag along? I shake my head. “I’m good.”
Callahan cracks his knuckles. “It wasn’t a question.”
SEVEN
GWENNA
Two minutesinto the party and I think I’d rather be anywhere than here.
Morgan outfitted me in a long, purple blouse with sleeves that cover my arms and even the tops of my hands (which I changed into in the bathroom, and she didn’t seem to think was odd) along with a pair of pants that are dark, shiny, and almost squeak when I walk—leather, or faux. I didn’t go so far as to put on a full face of makeup, but accepted her offer of some dark red lip stain and even ran a comb through my hair.
Gwenna, party-ready.
Porter’s is the campus bar, but that title makes it sound sticky and damp when the opposite is true. It’s in the basement of the dining hall building, almost cavern-like, and now filled with bodies and soft colorful lighting and the pulsing music of a DJ stand and surround-sound speakers. Beneath the arched openings to the bar, a bartender pours beers on tap and serves bottled cocktails offered on a hand-chalked menu—botanical gin and tonics, smoked old-fashioneds, hardly college jungle juice—and a table offering snacks that no one seems to be touching on various layered stands stands waiting to the right.
As soon as we walk in, Morgan seems to be vibing—nodding her head to the music, swaying her hips, and casting her eyes around the room. I get the sense that she’s eager to mingle, and probably desperate to be with anyone but me, her charity-chase instincts having run out somewhere on the walk across campus, so I mumble something about getting a drink and I take my leave of her with a big-pasted on smile. She hums something in parting that I can’t quite hear and weaves her way to the center of the dance floor, the lights above us drifting green to blue to purple and back, cutting through the fog of an unseen smoke machine.
Well, here we go. What would a normal person do?
I clench my hand around my phone in my pocket. A post, obviously. A cute, “look at my fabulous life” selfie that shows me happy, healthy, letting my hair down but nottoomuch. A quippy caption that’s just a tad humble-braggy.college life,all lower case, followed by a string of…cloud emoji or whatever happy people use. And…boom. Picture perfect, literally. And then I can get out of here.
Problem is, Porter’s is dark as a cavern. Because it…basically is. And the last thing I want to do is attract attention with a photo flash.
I shoulder my way through dark bodies and the relative light of the bar, digging out my phone and sliding open the camera as I do. I hold it aloft, the front camera straining to reflect anything but grainy darkness back at me. I’m experimenting with distance and angle, trying to get more light on my face without straight-up staring into the bar like a lunatic, when?—
“Cheese,” says a deep voice.
Someone grabs my shoulder and leans in, pressing the side of their head to mine and staring up at my phone. I jump back, startled.
“What the fuck?”
The phone jostles from my hand and tumbles to the floor—but doesn’t hit.
Because he catches it.
Whoever he is.
I blink, dumbfounded, as this…person straightens and holds out my phone to me. Tall. Messy hair. Leather jacket. A goddamnlip ring.And a grin.
“Careful,” he says, leaning in through the noise, smelling like citrus and smoke. “Don’t want to break anything.”
I snatch the phone away and glare at him, embarrassment flaming my cheeks. It’s bad enough that I’m all but obligated to be here, do this, play pretend, and now this…whoever he is has to barge in.
No, not whoever. The puzzle pieces click.
“You’re the proctor,” I say—aloud, by accident. Shit. I want this interaction concluded and here I am prolonging the damn thing.
He blinks, running a hand through his hair and studying me. I don’t like it. Too close. Instinctively, I pull my sleeves down further.
