CONNOR’S DRIVER, Gilligan, looks nothing like the famed television character. Big boned, bald and more suited to be a bodyguard than personal chauffeur, he passively carts us around Philly, not saying much of anything.
Connor uncorks the second bottle of champagne and replenishes my glass. Every time I take a sip, my plastic blade hits me in the nose. Lo has a much easier time as he grips a flask that’s filled with less bubbly liquor.
The birthday present I gave him clashes with his Hellion costume. Regardless, Lo wears the necklace that almost looks like a beaded rosary, except instead of a cross there’s an arrowhead at the end. Something I found when we took a trip to Ireland, only twelve at the time.
Lo subconsciously touches the necklace as we bump along the street. I smile, glad it means something to him as much as it does for me.
I look back at Connor. “Do you always ride around in a stretch limousine?” I run my hands over the polished black leather seat.
“Don’t you?”
Lo holds my waist, touching my bare hip as he draws me to his body. He chimes in, “Oh yeah, we take limo rides around Wal-Mart’s parking lot just to show regular people what money looks like. Don’t we, dear?”
My eyes bug at Lo’s sarcasm. “We have Escalades,” I try to recover, disentangling his hand from my hip, even if it kills me. His playfulness—while incredibly sexy—will most definitely make Connor uncomfortable. He’s our first real friend, and Lo is about to get us tossed on the street.
Connor puts an arm across the top of the stretched seat, wearing a cape, a cloth mask over his eyes, and a plastic sword. Zorro. “Most people disapprove of the limo, but those people aren’t the ones I’m trying to impress. Do you see how many people this can hold? Plus, I’m facing you. I don’t even have to strain my neck to talk. Those things are valuable to me.”
“I can get along with that.” Lo sets his mischievous eyes on me. “What about you, love?” I thought the teasing would stop after we solidified our relationship. This kind of taunting, I like way too much, and he knows it. He snakes his hand on my knee, running it up my leg, too casually to be taken as something overtly sexual. For me, he may as well have dropped on his knees a second time.
I mouth, stop.
He mouths, why? And he breaks into a gorgeous smile. Lo looks to Connor, but he tightens his fingers on my thigh. “You want to hear a story?” Where is this going?
Connor raises his glass. “I’m all ears.”
Lo’s eyes flicker to me, too briefly to make sense of his intentions. “Fizzle has company tours all the time, you know, the ones where they show the history of the soda and then let you try all the imported flavors.”
“Sure, I toured the factory with my ninth grade class.”
“It’s not real, that place. It’s not really where they make the drinks.”
Connor nods. “I suspected.”
“Well, Lily and I were twelve and her father left us in the museum area.”
The memory floats to the surface. I smile and add, “He thought we’d be occupied by tasting all of the sodas.”
Lo looks to Connor. “But Lily had a better idea. She said the real factory was a street over.”
Connor’s brows shoot up. “You went to the actual factory by yourselves? How’d you get in?”
Lo cocks his head at me. “Want to take this, love?” His hand sinks down my inner-thigh.
My breath hitches, not able to form actual words.
“No?” He grins and adds to Connor, “She told them her last name and said her father wanted her to take a mini-tour. When we went in, we darted off in another direction.” He ran so fast. He always does. I struggled to keep up, and he’d slow or run loops around me. As the security started gaining on us, he lifted me on his back. I held tightly to his neck, and he sped towards a giant, spinning vat of dark liquid. We hid out for a little while, and when the footsteps died in the distance, he concocted a masterful plan.
“Did you get in trouble?”
Lo shakes his head. “No, her dad has a heart of gold. He was actually flattered that we wanted to see the factory. If he’d known what I did, maybe he wouldn’t have been too kind. I found some alcohol around the place.” Correction: He took out his flask. “And I dumped it into the syrup.”
“Shut up,” Connor says. “You spiked the soda recipe?”
“They probably couldn’t taste it. There wasn’t really that much compared to the amount of syrup, but I take pride in the fact that a handful of people got a little something extra because of us that day.” He turns to me, and I think, maybe, he may kiss me. He has that look in his eye, the one that trails the fullness of my lips, the one that could tip me over the seat and give himself over to me. And then his phone beeps, breaking the connection.
I sigh, a little deflated. It’s not mere coincidence that the phone all of a sudden rings. My parents and sisters have been trying to wish him a happy birthday since this morning, but Lo would rather listen to the incessant beeping than confront them—or have a prolonged conversation with Rose.
“Just answer them,” I urge.
Lo glances at the screen, and I peek over his shoulder, seeing a photo of his father.
His face sharpens. Unlike my family, he never rejects his father’s calls. Sometimes I think it’s more than fearing the wrath of Jonathan Hale. I know, somewhere deep down, he loves his father. He just doesn’t know what type of love it is or even how to process it. Lo puts the phone to his ear. “Hey.”
In the quiet of the limo, I hear Jonathan’s rough voice through the speaker. “Happy Birthday. Did you receive my gift? Anderson said he left it in the lobby with the staff.”
“Yeah. I meant to call you.” Lo glances warily at me and takes his hand off my leg. “I remember you drinking it when I was younger. It’s great.” His father gave him a bottle of fifty-year-old scotch, Decanter or Dalmore or something. Lo tried to explain the value of it to me, but it whizzed right over my head. I couldn’t stop thinking about how perfect and wrong the present is and if his father knew it too.
“The next time you come over, we can break it open,” he tells him. “I have a couple cigars here too.”
“Sounds good.” Lo shifts his shoulder, closing me off.
“How has the day been for you so far?”
“Okay. I aced an econ exam.”
One of Connor’s eyebrows arch, disbelieving.
“That so?” His father also sounds unconvinced. I must have been the only one who had any faith in Lo’s grades.
“I can’t really talk now,” Lo tells him. “I’m with Lily. We’re headed to a Halloween party.”
“Okay. Be safe…” He pauses, as though he has something else to say. After a long moment, he adds, “Have a great twenty-first, son.”
“Thanks.”
His father hangs up, and Lo acts casual as he pockets the cell. He tightens his arm around my shoulder, bringing me closer. But his muscles stay taut, a subtle difference that also punctures the amusement in his voice. “Maybe you should just tell your sisters that I said thanks. Send out a mass text or something.”
“Why can’t you do that on your own phone?”
“Because they’ll reply back and then I’ll have to reply to that, which sounds exhausting.”
“He has a point,” Conner tells me.
Uh, shouldn’t he be siding with me? He’s my tutor. “Don’t tell me you find small talk draining. That’s your thing.”
Connor cups his champagne glass. “It sounds exhausting for him. I’d enjoy a talk with your sisters.”
“By the way,” I say. “How was your conversation with Rose? You’re still in one piece, so I presume it went well.”
Lo chokes on a sip of whatever’s in his flask, and I pat his back. “Excuse me,” Lo says. “You talked with Rose? Like had a fully formed conversation?”
Connor nods. “I even invited her tonight.”
Lo groans. “You did not invite the ice queen here.”
“Hey,” I shoot back. “That’s my sister. She has a good heart.” I pause. “You just have to be liked by her first.”
“Or be related to her,” Lo points out. True.
“So she’s coming?” I wonder, kind of nervous. I’d rather not explain Lo’s intoxication to her, especially since he’s supposed to be reformed from his boozing, careless days. It’s his birthday, and she’ll add that to his list of negative attributes and reasons why he’s not good for me.
Connor says, “She’s not coming.” Is that disappointment in his voice? “She said she’d rather skin my cat.” He smiles. Like actually smiles at that. Oh my God, were they flirting with each other over the phone?
Lo relaxes and mutters, “Thank God.”
Connor nods to me. “By the way, what are you supposed to be?”
Am I going to get asked that all night? I guess I should prepare. I flash my plastic claws. “X-23.”
He squints, confused.
“The girl version of Wolverine, technically his female clone.”
“Oh. Okay, cool. You kind of look like a hooker with knives though.” What?! That is not helping my confidence. “Lo, you need to prepare yourself for this party. So many guys are going to hit on her.”
Just when I thought I snuffed out my insecurities.
Lo gives me an encouraging squeeze on the shoulder. The thought of guys everywhere used to be exciting—a playground for my compulsions—but now, I couldn’t be more scared. Maybe a party is a bad idea.
To Connor, Lo says, “Good, it’ll give her practice saying no.” Oh, that was mean. I push him off, untangling his arms from mine. He focuses on tipping bourbon into the tiny opening of his flask, not caring anyway. He would have before he talked to his dad. He might have teased me back and whispered something dirty in my ear. Now, his mind has switched tracks.
“I can say no,” I defend with an unconvincing mutter. I haven’t tested this theory since we’ve started dating.
Lo caps his flask and looks to Connor. “If you see her flirting with someone, just yank her off him.”
“Lo,” I warn with wild eyes. What the hell is Connor going to think? That I really am a whore with claws?! My entire body heats and I struggle not to bury my face into my hands.
“You two are so weird,” Connor says, very casually.
Being called weird by Connor is like a unicorn calling a horse magical. It makes no damn sense, which is why Lo and I break into smiles, even if Lo’s mood has somewhat shifted since the phone call.
Abruptly, the car jerks to a stop. Gilligan mumbles out a “we’re here” and unlocks the doors. I press my nose to the window, ritzy suburbs right in view. A glowing mansion sits at the top of a steep hill, lighting up the dark sky. Out of all the parties, Connor said he picked the one that would have the best food. In the same sentence, he mentioned that I looked like I needed a good meal.
More cars roll up to the circular drive, and we climb out to confront the hoopla. A fountain crests the center, red, bloody water spurting from the stone. Zombies are staked in the green lawn, so life-like that I thought the gory limbs and droopy mouths were facilitated by paid models. Upon closer inspection, they’re nothing but silicon, prosthetics and paint.
We follow Connor up the stone stoops, and he bangs a bronze knocker. While we wait for an answer, more people gather behind us.
The door whips open quickly, loud music booming from inside. George Washington or possibly Mozart stands in the archway, holding a champagne glass. A white pill fizzles at the bottom of the gold liquid.
“Connor Cobalt!” He grins and sways on his feet, the white wig slightly off-kilter.
“Hey.” They go in for the bro-hug. “Who the hell are you supposed to be?”
“Thomas fucking Jefferson.”
“Of course,” Connor says with a sarcastic smile. Thomas Jefferson doesn’t pick it up, and before hanging around Connor, I wonder if I would have noticed it. Connor motions to Lo and me, and I grip onto Lo’s hips, hiding my exposed midriff behind half his body. “These are my friends. Lily and Lo.”
Thomas Jefferson narrows his eyes at Lo and I duck further behind his back. “What are you?” he wonders. “Mr. Spandex?”
“Clever,” Lo says with a glare.
“They’re X-Men,” Connor clarifies.
With this, Lo grabs my wrist and pulls me into view. He plants a hand firmly on my waist, as if this guy will know the New Mutant couple.
Thomas Jefferson stares at my long claws. “Right!” He claps his hands in recognition. “Wolverine Girl.”
“There’s no such thing,” I correct him. He gives me a funny look, and Connor sighs, slight impatience cracking his leveled exterior.
“Can we only be invited inside if you understand our costumes?” Connor asks. He cranes his neck to look past the host’s shoulder. “Because I think I spot a Sweeny Todd in there, and I know for a fact you’ve never heard of him.”
“Huh. Connor Cobalt. Always got to be right.” He swings the door and mockingly motions us inside. His staff must have evacuated for this college party, not wanting to be swept up in a hurricane of puke and candy corn.
Unfazed by the insult, Connor steps into the massive grand foyer where crystal chandeliers twinkle from the ceiling. Partygoers go up and down the marble staircase and further into glowing rooms, cobwebs strewn across door frames. People stumble around and sway to hypnotic music.
I step through the doorway, and then Thomas Jefferson blocks off the entrance before anyone else can cross.
“I don’t know you,” he says to the people behind us. “Or you.” The door slams. He traipses back in and passes Connor. “Freeloaders,” I hear him say, as though Connor will nod in agreement. He doesn’t do anything but pluck a steaming pumpkin mug off a goblin’s tray. Now those hairy things are models, waddling about with warty faces.
Unlike the highlighter party, Solo cups are replaced with champagne glasses and pumpkin mugs. Little baggies of pills and powder are clandestinely passed from palm to palm. I grew up with these blowouts—rich teenagers needing drugs to satiate the endless expanse of time. As if they reanimated straight from the pages of Bret Easton Ellis’ Less than Zero.
Drugs have never been my problem, and maybe I should feel a sense of gratitude that my compulsion is less dangerous than shooting liquid fire into my veins. Sex is a part of everyone’s life, addicted or not.
Drugs aren’t.
Alcohol isn’t.
You can spend years without both, but most people never become lifelong celibates. Every time I catch a girl tucking a baggy into her bra, eyes glazed and gone, I feel a pang of jealousy. Why can’t I have an addiction that people understand? It’s a vile thought—to wish for an addiction many die with. I’d rather have none at all, but for some reason, I never allow myself that option.
Before I made sense of my compulsions, I would spend hours lying in bed, emotionally drained from my ping-ponging thoughts. One minute, I vehemently defended my actions inside my mind. It was my body. Sex made me feel better and stopping would cause more problems than continuing down the destructive path. The next minute, I cried for hours and convinced myself to quit. I told myself I didn’t have a problem. I was just a whore looking for a way to justify my constant sexual thoughts. Sometimes I tried to stop. I trashed my porn and refused my body the luxury of climaxing.
But I couldn’t stomach the withdrawals, and those fruitless goals quickly ended. I always found a reason to start again. Maybe that’s my biggest fear—that I’ll find one excuse to move on from Lo. And I’ll be compelled to take it.
Lo dashes off in front of me, and I run to keep up and hide behind his back. A gaggle of hippies in flowery mini-dresses bombards Connor. He nods and smiles perfunctorily, and it sets off a wave of giggles.
He’ll have to fend for himself. I trail Lo into the kitchen where bodies compact near the silver stove. They flick on the gas and light cigarettes from the flames. The sliding glass door sits ajar, smoke wafting out into the chilly night. A couple girls in bikinis shriek and laugh loudly as they race into the house, goose-pimpled and wet.
Lo jiggles the knobs to a glass cabinet. Crystal bottles line about seven shelves, filled with amber liquid. Every lavish party starts the same. Lo beelines for the most expensive alcohol in the house and impulsively craves the taste of the different brands.
“It’s locked,” I tell him. “Can you stick to your own bourbon tonight?” His flask stays in the waist of his belt that matches his red and black suit.
“Hold on.” He departs for a second, vanishing around the corner and I pretend to be interested in a still life painting on the wall. Better to look fascinated by apples and pears than like a lonely loser.
Lo returns moments later with a safety pin.
“Lo,” I warn as he starts to wiggle it into the keyhole. “We just got here. I don’t want to get kicked out.”
“You’re distracting me,” he says.
Visions of high school parties swim to me. Lo creeping down the cellar of a kid’s house—a kid who invited everyone in his grade. Those parties happened far too often. Lo would drink the vintage wines and imported scotches, the angered host dragging him out by the shirt. Lo stumbling to stay upright. Me, exiting the bathroom with flushed cheeks, only to hurry after my only friend.
I don’t like repeating mistakes, but sometimes, I think we’re both forever stuck on a turntable.
Even with the smokers’ chatter by the stove, I hear the click of the lock. The glass doors swing open, and Lo’s eyes light up. Watching him delicately touch the bottles with hungry anticipation reminds me of my desires.
Which is why I blurt out, “You want to do it in the bathroom?” My voice remains small and timid, not yet a confident, sexy girl that I’m sure fills Lo’s dreams. It’s hard to be her when Lo isn’t a conquest I sleep with and then ditch.
“Huh?” Distracted, he gathers the best liquors in his arms and sets them on the granite counter beside me.
“After you drink, do you want to go to the bathroom to…” I trail off, fearing the fatal blow of rejection.
He pops the crystal plunger on a bottle and tips the liquid in a glass. “I thought I rocked your world,” he says. “Unless I imagined you saying it. You were making all kinds of noises, so it was hard to tell.”
My elbows blush as I remember the scandalous acts before we left. “You heard incorrectly. I don’t think it was possible to form actual words.”
He smiles and then takes a languid sip from his liquor.
“But,” I continue, “we’ve only done it at the apartment or on the yacht.”
He looks back to the depths of his drink. “Is that something you have to have?” he asks. “I didn’t think location was a big fucking deal.” He grimaces at his biting tone and then throws the rest of the liquor back in his throat. He refills the glass quickly.
I open my mouth but end up looking like a fish trying to breathe air. Where we have sex shouldn’t matter, but there’s an allure to doing it somewhere deviant. Always has been. “Okay.” The one word does not properly answer his question or his rudeness.
He clenches his jaw, fingers tightening on the glass. “I’m stuck in this suit anyway. Unless you want to cut a hole for my—”
“No.” I hold up my hands. “You’re right.”
“And in case you’ve forgotten, Laura,” he emphasizes X-23’s real name. “It’s my fucking birthday.” He raises his glass. “Which means this trumps that.” He eyes my nether region.
“You’re so much like Julian it’s scary.” I use his superhero’s real name. Both can be moody, irritable jerks and then do a flip and be the sweetest guys ever. You just have to catch them at the right time, the right moment.
“Wrong. I have both my arms.” Hellion lost his arms fighting Sentinels in X-Men: Second Coming. Madison Jefferies created metal hands for Hellion, now a new signature part of his wardrobe, but Lo ditches those because it hinders his ability to hold a flask.
My eyes dart nervously around the kitchen, half expecting Thomas Jefferson to pop up and berate Lo.
“If you don’t want to stand here, go hang out with Connor.”
“You trust me?” I wonder.
“I sincerely think that Connor is asexual. Like a sponge. He probably wouldn’t even notice if you hit on him.”
I want to mention my theory about Connor crushing on Rose, but Lo will probably make a snide remark about her. I’d rather not start a fight by having to defend my sister while she’s not here.
“What about other people? Do you trust me with them?”
He gives me a sharp glare. “I don’t know. Now you’re making me think I should be fucking worried.” He’s in a foul mood. I’m not sure what put him there. Maybe the familiar atmosphere brings bad memories and he wishes we stayed home. Or maybe he’d rather be drinking with his father and smoking a cigar than be here, celebrating in a strange house with strange people that mean nothing to him.
“I’m irrationally freaking out,” I say. “The same way you’re kind of being an asshole.”
Lo tips back his drink, downing the fiery alcohol in one gulp. He wipes his mouth with the back of his arm. He hides any and all expression and gestures to me with his fingers. I hesitate and then sidle to his side. Before I reach him, he sets a kiss right on my nose. And then my cheek. My neck.
I smile at the tender, quick pecks. His arms swiftly swoop around me, pulling me fully to his body, his movements lighter than air, rocking on our feet as though we have no real balance. His lips finally find mine, and the kiss lasts longer, sweeter. After a long, dizzy moment, he retracts and puts his thumb to my bottom lip. “How about this?” His husky, low voice takes my breath. “Just repeat this phrase whenever you feel the urge to jump some other guy’s bones.” His mouth brushes my ear. “Loren Hale fucks better.”
I gape.
“Good, huh?” He winks and steps away. I immediately want to grab back, hold his hand and tug him to my chest. Instead, he finds his glass.
I can’t believe I’m envious of dishware. I clear my throat, collecting my thoughts. “That’ll work, but I’m coming up with a different mantra.”
“And what’s that?” His lip quirks, but the bottles call out to him. And his eyes flicker away from me.
“I will not cheat on Loren Hale.”
Lo inspects the cabinet. “I like mine better,” he says, distant. He plucks a triangular shaped bottle off the shelf, and despite my lust for him and my worry for his mental state, I leave him to binge.
Gradually, I brace the crowded living room where the lights dim and the Halloween colors strobe. I spot Connor beside the crackling fireplace, surrounded by a large group of people chatting over each other, as though he’s the focus of the party. He interjects a couple of times, but more people talk to him than him needing to talk back. All plans whoosh out of my head, and even the idea of vying for someone’s attention sounds both exhausting and terrifying.
Before I can look away, Connor catches my eye and waves me over. My gaze traces the hippies who stagger, even with bare feet, and I shake my head. I belong in the shadows and the cobwebs. Connor clearly lives in the spotlight.
Frown lines crease his forehead, and he mutters something quickly to his friends before surprisingly detaching from the herd and heading to me. His cape billows behind him, but he pushed his mask to the top of his thick, wavy brown hair.
“You know,” Connor says, “they don’t bite. Dreadful company but relatively harmless.”
“I know,” I say. “I just don’t like large groups. Usually I just…dance when I go to parties.” What a big fat lie, but I’d rather not add and have sex to the statement.
“You never know, one of these pirates may be a future investor that you need in your back pocket.”
“Don’t let me stop you.” I motion to the talkative groups. “Go find a future millionaire.”
His feet stay cemented. “Where’s Lo? Did you lose him again?”
“He’s in the kitchen and probably going to get us kicked out. I thought I’d take a tour of the house before then.” Hopefully I sound as bitter as I feel.
“Why would he get us kicked out?”
I shake my head, clearing away the sudden judgment. “Nothing. It’s fine.”
A shirtless firefighter saunters past us, sweat glistening on his bare chest like he’s saved someone from a burning building. I will not cheat on Loren Hale. Nope, not even with a sexy firefighter.
“Hey, Connor,” Batman walks over carrying a rare beer in this place. “I didn’t think you would show here. Darren Greenberg’s party is supposed to have free helicopter rides.”
“Flying in puke doesn’t sound that appealing, and I thought there would be food here.”
“Yeah, Michael went cheap this year. I thought he was going to recreate a scene from Evil Dead in the front yard. Instead, he went for D-list zombies.” Batman glances at me. “You look familiar. Do I know you?”
I really look at him this time but come up blank. Usually the only people that recognize me and I can’t place, are the ones I’ve slept with.
“No, I don’t think we’ve met,” I tell him.
“This is Lily,” Connor introduces. “She’s a friend.”
Batman slaps Connor’s shoulder. “Good job, man.” What does that even mean? He glances at my bare stomach with a hungry gaze. Oh. I cross my arms. He then notices my costume. “Hey, Wolverine!”
I don’t even try to correct him.
“We should go find all the superheroes here and try to fight some fucking evil together.”
“Her boyfriend is around here somewhere. He’s part of X-Men too.”
Batman looks a bit crestfallen. “Boyfriend, huh?” His eyes narrow to slits. “I think…I think I do know you. Do you ever go to The Cloud? It’s a club downtown.”
Before I say a word, I see him formulating the answer. Amusement flashes across his features. Immediately, my gut reaction kicks in and I bolt away from both of them, hoping Connor will follow. One guy spotting me and claiming we had sex is a weird coincidence. Two guys—Connor will think something’s wrong with me.
I stop in the foyer, blocked by a pack of people watching Fred Flintstone slide down the curving bannister.
Connor touches my shoulder, and I spin to face him, glad to not see Batman by his side. “I would adopt your methods at avoiding douchebags, but I’m guessing running away doesn’t make many friends.”
I relax. He thinks I flee to avoid jerks like frat Kevin and Batman. Truth be told, I’m not even sure if these guys are the assholes in the situation. I slept with them, acting exactly how they perceive me to be. Trashy.
“I’m not in the market for many friends,” I tell him.
“I figured. Should we find your boyfriend? Make sure he doesn’t puke on anyone.”
“He rarely pukes.”
“That’s good. Does he ditch you a lot at parties?”
“He didn’t ditch me. I left him in the kitchen.”
He holds up his hands, coming in peace. Then I lead the way, and when we reach the glass cabinet, a guy in nothing but a white button-down and socks realigns the bottles with an irritated scowl.
Uh-oh.
“What happened?” Connor asks, though I’m sure he’s deduced the obvious.
Tom Cruise from Risky Business takes out a skeleton key. “I found some asshole drinking my uncle’s liquor. Shit costs more than a car.” Uncle. He must be Thomas Jefferson’s cousin.
“Did you kick him out?” Connor keeps calm while my pulse spikes. What if they pulled Lo outside to beat him up or humiliate him…or worse?
“Nah, my brothers wanted to get his name first. They’re all out back.” Tom Cruise holds up a bottle with residual amber liquid. “He’s surprisingly coherent. I would be knocked out if I drank as much as this kid.”
I don’t wait for anything else. I dart for the backdoor, praying that Lo keeps his lips sealed. He has a way of saying the exact wrong things to instigate a fight. Most of the time, he does it on purpose.
I shouldn’t have insisted on attending a party. When I noticed the shift in his mood, I should have offered to go back home. He didn’t want to be here.
My boots sink into wet grass, and I pass the pool that glows a deep orange. Half-naked girls bob in and out of the water. Lo isn’t among the crowds that group off into small clusters with drinks nestled firmly in their hands.
Connor touches my shoulder and nods towards the side of the house. “Over here.” Has he already seen him? Or does he know where they interrogate unruly guests? I push back spider webs and black streamers, walking closer to the east side of the mansion.
People are sparse here, and the night sky whistles while yelling overlaps the soft hum of music.
“For the hundredth fucking time, the cabinet was open! Maybe you should check your locks before you throw a party.” Lo. We found him, but his inciting words only bring fear to my heart.
“We don’t give a shit about your excuses!”
Another guy adds, “Who the hell are you and what bastard invited you here?”
“That bastard would be me,” Connor says as we come into view.
A rock lodges in my throat. Lo stands cornered against the stone siding of the house. Four guys dressed in dark-green, long sleeve Under Armour shirts and light green surfer tanks, carry indignant scowls—as well as hard shells on their backs, dressed as Ninja Turtles.
Even in orange-lit light, I make out the red plume burgeoning on Lo’s cheek.
Someone hit him.
I run towards Lo, all sensibility flying out of my brain.
One of Thomas Jefferson’s Ninja Turtle cousins grabs me around the waist before I reach my boyfriend.
“Hey!” Lo and Connor yell in unison.
“Why the hell would you bring this trash to our uncle’s house?” The purple-bandana Donatello asks as I struggle to break from his grip. I kick out, my legs flailing in the air, but he holds tightly as if I’m a sack of bones.
Connor steps forward. “What are you, back alley thugs? Let her go, Matt. Then we can talk.”
The few other clusters of people in the yard begin to watch. Through my struggle, I spot a Tinker Bell, a Peter Pan, a green-clad superhero and Dobby, the house elf. The green-clad superhero edges forward, and just when I think he’s coming to my rescue, Matt releases his hold on me, and I finish the distance to Lo.
He quickly places two hands on my cheeks, inspecting the length of my body with his gaze.
“I’m fine,” I tell him, more worried about his state. “Stop fueling them.”
His eyes harden, his cheekbones sharpening which turn his lips into a pout. “Just get behind me.”
“Lo,” I panic, my chest constricting.
“If something happens,” Lo breathes as he pushes me back. “Run to Connor’s limo. Don’t wait for me, okay?”
“No.” My eyes bug. “Lo, please—”
“This kid owes us forty grand,” Matt sneers, turning the spotlight back on Lo and off Connor. Why would Connor even help us? It may damage his reputation beyond repair.
“I’m not giving you a cent,” Lo spits. “How the hell was I supposed to know the liquor was off limits? There wasn’t a sign.”
“It was locked,” says the blue-bandana cousin.
Lo opens his mouth again, and I pinch his arm, shooting him a glare. We need to leave, preferably together. He clenches his jaw and thankfully shuts up.
Matt steers his heated glower back to Connor. “Do you think we’re going to overlook this because you’re Connor Cobalt? You realize that anyone else would be blacklisted by now.” Oooh, blacklisted. Lo and I are probably crossed off all lists in the affluent Philly circle. If it wasn’t for Connor, we wouldn’t have even passed the doors.
“Blacklist me, then,” Connor says. “This is a terrible party. You didn’t even bother to serve food.”
Matt’s head jerks back in surprise. “You’re going to choose them over us?”
Connor nods, his muscles tensing. “Yes. Let’s see what we have here. Net worth of maybe”—he scans the mansion behind me—“twenty-five million combined.” He points to Lo and me. “Calloway and Hale. That’s every fucking soda can in your house and all your little nephews and nieces’ diapers. Billions. So yeah, I’m going to side with the two people that make your inheritances look like chump change.”
I gape, not expecting any of that, mostly about Connor being our friend in a few days. He collects people, and Lo and I are gold nuggets in his jar. It’s been so long that anyone has stuck up for us that I slide past the superficiality in his motives. Having an ally is nice. Desperate, yes, but no one said Lo and I are perfect either.
Matt and the other Ninja Turtles look stupefied, trying to process our wealth and our last names. Then he laughs in cruel amusement. “Well then, I suppose with your means you’ll have no problem taking that pacifier out of your ass and reimbursing us for what you drank.”
Lo’s expression grows dark. I put my hand in his, hoping he’s not about to be belligerent and argumentative. I trust Lo to stand down with me here, but once I leave, anything can happen.
“Fuck you,” Lo curses.
Connor cuts in before one of the cousins raises a fist to make Lo pay it. “Will your uncle really care? Forty grand is nothing.”
“He drank a car, Connor,” Matt says in disbelief. “That’s more than some people make in a goddamn year! Yeah, he’ll be pissed, and Diaper Rash over there can easily afford it. Pay up, or we’re going to find collateral until you grab your fucking checkbook.” They eye me, and I back up into the cold stone. Lo glances over his shoulder, all sharp lines, and when he feels that I’m safe, he steps forward.
No! I lunge and grab his wrist.
“Lily—”
“He can’t pay it,” I defend.
“Lily,” Lo warns. “Don’t.”
I seal my lips, not about to spill Lo’s personal life to strangers. His father put him on a stringent allowance, tying up his bank account and pooling in money on a monthly basis. He supervises every transaction, calling Lo when there are any big purchases. That four thousand-dollar champagne at the Italian restaurant plus his other expenses wiped him clean this month.
And if he overdraws, Jonathan Hale will throw a fit.
“You really expect me to believe that, sweetheart?” Matt says. No, he wouldn’t.
Connor, for the first time, looks concerned. He keeps edging backwards, glancing around to find reinforcements in case this gets ugly.
“I can—I can do it. But my checkbook is in the car with my purse,” I say. If I have to take the heat for a forty grand charge, then I will. I can easily blame it on a dress for the Christmas Charity Gala, citing that I stained the one I already bought. The only problem: I didn’t bring any money. With no pockets and an affinity for ditching purses, I left the house with nothing but my plastic blades and knee-high leather boots.
“Matt!” A tall, tanned guy jogs over to us. He wears a green leather jacket and carries a bow with a quiver of arrows strung to his back. I recognize him as the green-clad superhero from the sidelines. Dark green paint streaks across his eyes like a mask and disheveled brown hair accentuates the hard lines in his jaw. He looks manly, powerful and pissed. His costume probably helps, but I have a feeling the self-confidence is all him.
He stops a few feet from our stand-off with the Ninja Turtles and focuses on the purple-bandana cousin. I’m ready for him to shake his fists at Matt, threaten him with his strong build, something that Lo has avoided.
The green-clad superhero says, “Hey, I just talked to some girl. She said Michael wants you guys to come in the house. He needs you to break up a fight in the basement. They’re knocking into shit.”
My mouth slowly falls. So…he’s not here to help us. I’m an idiot.
Matt rubs the back of his neck, his eyes flickering to us before he nods to the other Turtles. “Go. I’ll take care of this.” The cousins sprint off towards the pool.
“The girl said that Michael wanted all four of you.”
Matt huffs. “Can you do me a favor, Ryke? These two owe my uncle forty grand.” He points to me. “This girl says her checkbook is in the car. Follow them and get the money from her.”
“Yeah, no problem.”
My stomach drops further. Now we’re going to be tailed by Matt’s superhero friend who looks fit enough to tackle me and pin me to the grass. Maybe not Lo. Definitely me. Probably Connor…Great.
The evil Turtle disappears around the corner and Ryke shifts his attention to us. “Where’s the car?” He turns his head, and I catch his profile: unshaven jaw, slender nose, brown eyes that melt into honey. He’s something I would normally pursue without question. I shake off the thought, especially since he’s friends with Thomas Jefferson’s cousins.
“This way.” Connor leads us to his limo.
Lo slips his hand around my waist, bringing me close. Ryke walks ahead of us with Connor, and Lo burns holes into the superhero’s back. Besides the fact that Ryke is working as Matt’s errand boy, I wonder if Lo feels threatened. Did he see me eyeing him? I’m not so sure. Ryke also stands a good inch above Lo, probably six-foot-three, and carries himself with that extra assurance, exuding a strong sense of masculinity. Lo does too, but there’s a small difference. I can barely place it. Where Lo is all sharpness, this guy is hard-lined. Like ice versus stone.
I blink, trying not to focus on Ryke’s handsomeness. Not at a time like this.
Five paces out and Lo plucks his flask from his belt, drinking again.
“Is that even your booze?” I ask, pissed that he’s drowning another situation with liquor. But I guess I just spaced out a little—one second from imagining Ryke’s abs. So I can’t be too critical.
He wipes his mouth with his hand. “Maybe.”
Ryke looks over his shoulder every so often. His eyes dart between us, his expression too enigmatic to understand. If Matt trusts him, he can’t be any better than the Ninja Turtles.
Maybe I can cry instead of paying him. Don’t guys get really uncomfortable when girls start sobbing?
“So what are you supposed to be? Robin Hood?” Connor asks.
“Green Arrow,” I correct before Ryke can.
Ryke looks back, and he scrutinizes my costume, his intrusive gaze heating my body. “You know Green Arrow?” he finally asks, meeting my eyes.
“A little,” I mumble. “DC comics aren’t really my thing.” I like the underdog stories, the kind where any average person can be a superhero. Peter Parker, mutants—they know a little something about that.
“Only losers read DC,” Lo adds. Okay, I wouldn’t go that far.
“I don’t read comics,” Ryke confesses. “I’ve just seen Smallville on television. What does that make me?”
“A prick.”
Ryke’s eyebrows shoot up, surprised by the hostility. “I see.”
“For the record,” I interject, “I don’t agree with Lo. I’m not a comic book elitist.” Anyone can read comics, and if you don’t it’s perfectly okay to enjoy the characters in other mediums.
Lo makes a point to roll his eyes at me.
Ryke ignores my comment and turns to Connor who has gone quiet. “Why are you with these two? Aren’t you usually surrounded by a pack of people trying to kiss your ass?”
“I’m broadening my social reach.”
As we near the car, I realize I need to formulate a plan. But my brain short-circuits with each panicked breath. We step onto the street and the wind churns, blowing my hair. Connor’s limo hugs the curb.
“Where the hell is your car?” Ryke asks, eyes flickering cautiously to the house.
“Right here.” Connor knocks on the door and Gilligan, his driver, pops open the lock.
I motion for Lo to climb in before me. He sways on his feet, needing no other encouragement. When he’s safely on the leather seat, I begin to relax. Somewhat.
“Where’s your purse?” Connor asks. And then his eyes gradually widen. “Wait, you didn’t bring a purse, did you?”
“I-I…” I avoid Ryke. Is he going to shake me down? Hit me? His broad muscles tense, and I shrivel back in fear.
“What did you do?” Connor asks, horrified.
I open my mouth, but as I look up, I realize he didn’t address me. He glances from Ryke to the lawn where Ninja Turtles sprint out the door, dodging motionless zombies and heading straight for…us.
