Total pages in book: 126
Estimated words: 122030 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 610(@200wpm)___ 488(@250wpm)___ 407(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 122030 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 610(@200wpm)___ 488(@250wpm)___ 407(@300wpm)
“Was that one of those spontaneous demonstrations of school spirit I keep hearing about?” I ask, not bothering to hide the fact that I’m checking her out.
“Varsity initiation,” she says, licking her lips like I’m the one who’s unknowingly wandered into her web. “Well, one of the rituals, anyway.”
“I’ll never get the appeal.”
“That’s funny coming from a jock.”
I wink at her. “You take that back. I won’t have you besmirch my good name with such slander.”
Mila pops a hand on her hip and glances around. “Speaking of slander… Where’s the wife?”
“Sloane?” I offer a bored shrug. “Home, I guess. I’m flying solo tonight.”
Her liquid-amber eyes narrow, skeptical. “No, I don’t think so. Sloane hates sharing her toys.”
“All right, so I wasn’t technically invited.” She’s a tad sharper than I gave her credit for, so I change tack. “I came looking for my stepbrother. You know Fenn?”
“You could say that.” She doesn’t care to elaborate, but her smirk hints at a history I don’t have time to explore. “Something wrong?”
“No, he’s just in a mood lately, and I’m trying to keep him out of trouble.”
“Aww.” She makes a playfully pouting face. “That’s so sweet. You’re adorable.”
“Hey, I know this guy!” Oliver Drummer saunters over to us and clamps a paw down on my shoulder, jostling me like I owe him money.
I try to remember if I’ve recently made his life more difficult somehow, but come up empty.
“RJ, right?” he prompts. “From that soccer game.”
“Oh, yeah. Right.”
Oliver’s the Big Man at Ballard. Their Duke without the rap sheet. Smart enough not to get caught, I guess.
“You’re a long way from home,” he remarks.
Mila interjects for me. “He’s looking for Fenn. Who may or may not be on a bender.”
Oliver frowns. “Can’t say I’ve seen him. But you should grab a drink and stay awhile. See how the other half lives.”
I don’t know if he means outside the barbed wire fences of Juvie Prep, or if it’s a jab at my finances (or lack thereof), but I give him a nod either way because this self-important dipshit isn’t my problem tonight.
“That’s a great idea.” Mila takes my arm, though her aim is unmistakably in Oliver’s direction. “I’ll show you where they’re hiding the good stuff.”
She spares him a challenging glare as she drags me off. Interesting. Seems I’m not the only one with ulterior motives tonight. That should make my job a little easier.
Farther down the hall and deeper into the shadowy crevices of the party beyond the common room, each of the suites is like a tiny, contained universe of adolescent exploration and experimentation. Bumps of coke in 202, and two dudes wrestling in body paint for a chanting audience in 204. In nearly every corner, I glimpse couples in a tangle of lips and hands.
Mila brings me to a room where liquor bottles and red cups sit on a forgotten wooden desk.
“What do you like?” she asks.
“Whatever you’re drinking.”
She pours two shots of tequila and hands one to me. We cheers before tossing them back. She gives each of us a refill, this time sipping hers rather than shooting.
“Why are you really here?” she demands. No more good cop.
I pretend to ponder my response while sipping my own drink. Letting her believe her powers of persuasion are dragging it out of me.
“The truth?” I finally say.
“Yes.”
“I’ve been stuck in this godforsaken town for months with the same ugly faces, and I just needed a change of scenery. I don’t usually hang around one place this long.”
Her gaze is reluctant but appeased with that answer. “Yeah, I guess it’s kind of a sausage fest over there, huh?”
“Yup. And I’m also tired of listening to Fenn go on about his old roommate.”
“Gabe,” she confirms. “I know him.”
I can’t look too eager, but this is my in. “Oh, right. I think Fenn mentioned something about you guys. You were hooking up with him, yeah?”
Her body language changes instantly, becoming guarded and closed off. She stands a little straighter as if prepared to bolt for the exit.
“Seriously?” Mila laughs at me. “I don’t even know you.”
Shit. I pushed too hard. Now I’ve got a limited window to salvage this.
“We can fix that,” I say, winking again.
I swallow the rest of my tequila and pour another shot. When I offer the bottle, she pauses a moment. Appraising me. Whatever she sees, it overrides her better judgment. Or maybe Sloane was right—the opportunity to play with Sloane’s toys is simply too tempting to ignore.
Mila holds her cup out and accepts another pour. “All right,” she agrees, still wary but up to the challenge. “Come with me.”
Again she takes my hand, drawing me even farther into the belly of this capitalist expression of rebellion. On the third floor, there is a distinctly different atmosphere. Colored lights paint the walls and wander the ceiling like a dizzy kaleidoscope. The common room is architecturally identical to the one below, but not yet touched by the renovations. Here, bodies pulse in a sort of chaotic unison to the beat of heavy trance music. The air drips with sweat and is so thick, it seeps into my clothes. Mila perks right up.