THE SUN SET AN HOUR AGO, the night is young, yet the unfamiliar two-story house before me is already swarming with people. Empty beer cans and drunk students are scattered across the lawn, the smell of sweat and alcohol permeating the night air. I grimace as a guy stumbles past me and the stench becomes overwhelming, making my head spin a little.
I already hate this.
Girlfriend guilt got the better of me, as it so often does, which is how I’ve ended up standing in front of a random house wearing crappy devil horns and a red dress, an angel and a cat flanking me.
“This was a terrible idea,” the cat laments, her disgust for our current situation mercifully matching mine. I glance over my shoulder at the costume-clad girl dithering beside me, a matching grimace on her pretty face. Like me and my horns, she’s made the minimum effort tonight. Slapping on a pair of equally cheap cat ears and digging a black two-piece out of her closet, she called it a day, dodging Luna like she had the plague when she tried to paint whiskers on her. White-blonde braids spill down her back, a stark contrast against her dark skin, a similar shade to her deep brown eyes.They turn sympathetic when they meet mine, and we share a tired sigh.
Kate Butcher was the first person I met when I moved to California. She took one look at me, wide-eyed and terrified on my first day in a brand new high school in a brand new town, and took me under her wing. Or more like she shoved me under her wing. Not that I was complaining; I needed a friend and I guess she sensed that because a friend, I got. A best friend. We graduated together, got into the University of California, Sun Valley together, and, by some stroke of luck, got put into the same dorm our freshman year where we met Luna, the missing piece to our puzzle.
A year later, our little trio snagged a decent apartment near campus. Granted, it’s small and Kate’s bedroom is little more than a renovated office and we’re almost certain our neighbors are drug dealers—although, their dodgy possible profession is counteracted by one of them being the spitting image of Pitbull—but it’s ours. It’s home.
And I would much rather be snuggled up on our tiny sofa right now than about to enter the depths of what I strongly consider hell.
Of my two beloved best friends, Kate was the one who at least tried to take my anti-party side. She knows I hate these kinds of things, especially when a certain undoubtedly drunk boyfriend is concerned. Drunk Dylan is a walking advert for PDA. Drunk Amelia, and sober Amelia, are not. It’s not that I’m against it. It’s more that I can’t stomach the way Dylan totes me around like a prize he’s won, kissing me without even looking at me.
This isn’t Kate’s idea of a perfect night either but, alas, we were overruled. All it took was Luna hearing the word ‘party’ and any arguments became null and void and her one-track mind took over.
And, let me tell you, Luna Evans is not an easy person to say ‘no’ to.
“Suck it up.” A sharp elbow catches both Kate and me in the side, a sharper gaze shooting us a warning glare. “Complain again and you don’t get McDonald’s on the way home.”
Oh, and, Kate and I are extremely susceptible to bribery.
Miming zipping out mouths shut, Kate and I fake smiles for out friend who, on the complete opposite end of the spectrum, takes Halloween very seriously. Luna is always gorgeous but right now, wearing a tight, white ensemble she spent hours painstakingly picking out with glitter sprinkled on her tan skin, flimsy white wings strapped to her back, and a halo nestled in her perfectly curled hair, she’s downright ethereal.
Angel is not quite the name I’d attach to her costume. Goddess is more accurate.
A third grimace in a matter of minutes creases my face as I glance down at my outfit, the cute red dress I’d thought looked cute before we left the apartment suddenly seeming way too plain. I complained my ass off earlier when Luna cornered me, armed with an arsenal of makeup and a pair of heels that made my feet hurt just looking at them, but now, I’m grateful she made me up so I don’t look quite as… frumpy next to her and Kate. In an odd turn of events, I’m especially grateful for the heels because for once, I’m somewhere within the realm of being an average height.
“It’ll be fun, okay?” Luna slips an arm through the crook of mine, doing the same thing to Kate, and tugging us both towards the house. “We’ll drink, we’ll dance, we’ll find me a delectable baseball player to rub up against,” Kate and I snort in unison, “and if you still hate your life in an hour, we’ll re-assess.” Her slender body sways from side to side, bumping each of our hips. “Deal?”
Leaning forward to sneak a look at Kate, both of us adopt reluctant grins. “Deal.”
A wave of obliterating heat hits us the second we step in the front door, knocking the air out of me and instantly making me sweatier than I was a moment ago. Music pulses around us, so loud I feel like I’m vibrating, and it’s practically impossible to move without brushing up against an equally sweaty, writhing body.
Unlinking herself from the trio, Luna steps in front of us, intending to use herself as a battering ram since she’s the tallest. She needn’t have bothered; the crowd parts for her like they’re a curtain and she’s freaking daylight. I resist the urge to laugh at the many, many, many male gazes swinging her way as she struts past with us in her wake.
May the odds be ever in your favor, I silently tell them all.
We shuffle our way into the kitchen, making it there in half the time it would’ve taken without Luna’s magic powers. She barely steps a heeled foot on the tiled kitchen floor before we’re surrounded, every flavor of boy begging for her attention. Shaking my head with a laugh, I elbow my way out of the panting throng, leaving Luna in the capable hands of herself and making my way to the kitchen island. It’s laden with drinks, everything from wine to soda to tequila available for my drinking pleasure. I retch internally at the sight of the latter; Amelia and tequila are not friends.
Before I can make my decision, Kate appears at my side and pushes a cup full of dark liquid into my hand. “Your favorite,” she sings in my ear, clinking her own full cup against mine.
A pleased hum escapes me at the first mouthful, warmth spreading under my skin as the sweet taste of rum and cola fills my mouth. My favorite, indeed. I lift my cup in a silent thank you, about verbalize the statement when a thick arm winds its way around my thought, cutting me off as it yanks me roughly against a hard chest. “You came, baby.”
Tilting my head back, I smile cautiously up at a red-faced, clearly intoxicated Dylan. “I did.”
He drops a kiss on my forehead, the smell of whiskey and smoke invading my senses, and I will my nose not to wrinkle in disgust. I hate smoking, detest it wholeheartedly, but I know better than to nag. Nagging annoys him. I think it spurs him on to do it more, honestly. So, I keep my mouth shut. Especially since it seems like Dylan is in a good mood. Happy Drunk Dylan rarely makes an appearance; most of the time, whiskey has the opposite effect on him. So, I’m going to savor it.
I’m savoring it as I let Dylan cradle me tightly to his chest, let him press soft kisses to my neck as we dance and mingle and drink. Heavy on the latter. I’m savoring it when he whispers in my ear that we should go somewhere quieter, as he corrals me upstairs into an empty bathroom, hoists me onto a counter, and kisses me hard. I’m savoring it when he unzips his jeans and I press him closer to me because fuck it. We’re drunk and we’re happy and he rarely wants to touch me lately, in private, at least. Why not have a little fun?
I’m clinging onto that little thread of happy hope so tightly, I don’t even mind when it’s an… unsatisfying encounter, nor when he abandons me pretty much the second he disposes of the condom, leaving me with my dress around my thighs and my panties around my ankles. I keep clinging as I clean myself up, head back downstairs alone, and mingle and dance and drink again except this time, I do it all sans my boyfriend. I distract myself with all the mingling and the dancing and the drinking until an hour passes and I can’t distract myself anymore. Until my overthinking gene regains control and I notice, hey, I haven’t seen that clingy boyfriend of mine in a while.
Half-listening to whatever the group around me is chatting about, I rise on my tiptoes, craning my neck to peer over the crowd as best as I can to try to find him. A couple of minutes of fruitless searching pass before I hit the jackpot; a familiar tuft of dirty blond hair and a broad back clad with a t-shirt I bought him sneaking upstairs. Excusing myself from the group, I make a beeline for the stairs, my calls of his name drowned out by the oppressive music.
It takes a solid ten minutes to wrestle my way through the crowd, another five before I can even make it up the stairs, due to the congregation of people who’ve chosen the bottom step as their designated conversation zone. I’m out of breath by the time I make it upstairs, huffing a little as I frown at the long stretch of empty hallway before me. Weird. Maybe he’s looking for a bathroom or something.
Stumbling slightly because heels and rum are a dangerous combination, I reach the first door, lifting a hand to wrap my knuckles against the wood. My fingers freeze mid-air when, all of a sudden, the unmistakable sound of moans fills the hallway.
“Dylan.”
The moan is as bloodcurdling as a scream.
My chest constricts at the sound of it, my heart dropping to my feet, the weight of that single word hitting me like a truck. Tears already burn my eyes as, against my better judgment, I shove the door open, praying to every and any god I’m not going to find what I know I’m going to find.
Pure and utter rage dries up those tears as I take in the scene before me.
Dylan on his back on a bed that isn’t his. Red-flushed cheeks. Jeans around his ankles. Shirt unbuttoned.
A very naked girl straddling him.
Riding him.
His eyes, dark with lust, move from his bouncing chest and land on me, frozen with a mixture of shock, disbelief, and fury.
He sits up so quickly he almost knocks his little mistress right off his lap. “Amelia…”
My name barely leaves his lips before I turn on my heel and stalk away. He says it again but the way he utters my name doesn’t sound sweet like it used to. It doesn’t make my heart flutter and speed up. Instead, it makes my heart crack in half.
“Baby, please, it was a mistake.”
A furious laugh escapes me as I spin back around, almost colliding with him as he chases after me. He’s managed to yank his jeans into place, unzipped but covering his fucking still-hard dick, but his shirtless chest still mocks me, my fists balling at the sight of fresh claw marks decorating his skin, of the hickies on his neck. “Fuck you.”
“I swear-”
“A mistake?” I seethe, shoving him away because he’s too damn close. “No, fucking you in the bathroom an hour ago was a mistake. A very unsatisfying mistake.”
The words burn as they leave my tongue, a pleasurable pain. I want to hurt him, and I know exactly where to strike. It feels good to hurt him. And it feels even better knowing it’s the truth.
Satisfied with myself, I try to turn away, but strong fingers gripping my wrist inhibit my movements. “You little bitch.”
Pain lances up my arm as I’m yanked backward, my wrist emitting an odd popping sound echoed by a thump as I’m slammed against the wall. Blue eyes I thought I loved turn into pools of black tar as they glare at me, pure vicious. I wriggle, attempting to free myself from his grip, but it’s futile. “You’re hurting me.”
“Shut up,” are the spat words my whimpered pleas are met with. Moving until his body is flush with me, pushing me harder against the wall, Dylan plants a hand on my hip, fingers digging into my skin. Hard. Leaning down so his mouth is level with my ear, he whispers, “You don’t get to talk to me like that.”
I recoil at his words. No, not at his words. At his voice. The usually smooth tone descends into something else, something terrifying. A voice I’ve heard before, only once.
Fear rushes through me like a wild rapid.
“Please, Dylan,” I try again. “You’re hurting me.”
My pathetic cries only make him laugh, a harsh chuckle that chills me to the bone, as much as this awful transformation is. Gone is the charming smile, replaced by a repulsive smirk that makes me sick to my stomach. Eyes that once soothed me now suddenly make every hair on my body stand up. It’s the look in those eyes that has the most profound effect, though. The pure predator look causes bile to rush up my throat because, honestly, it looks like he’s enjoying this.
A cruel curve to his lips, he opens his mouth to say something, but another voice interrupts him.
“Is there a problem here?”
An audible cry of relief escapes me when Dylan’s hands suddenly drop and I’m freed. In a panic, I look towards the staircase where a man leans against the banister, watching us. Dylan’s narrowed gaze burns into the side of my face, daring me to say something, and that bravado I was feeling earlier? Dead and gone.
Instead, I drop my gaze, staring intently at the floor as I try not to cradle my sore wrist, shaking my head ever so slightly. When a minute passes and no one speaks, no one moves, I take the opportunity to dart away from Dylan.
A deep voice stops me before I can descend the stairs. “You okay?”
My savior watches me carefully, intently, and for a moment, I watch him right back. Obscenely tall, dressed in all black, dark hair slicked back and his face painted to resemble a skeleton. Golden eyes blaze with barely contained rage, and I recoil a little at the sight. His expression softens all of a sudden, his brow furrowing, and mine copies. They’re oddly familiar, those eyes and the intensity, but my fuzzy, drunk brain can’t quite place him, and I don’t care enough to try. Shaking my head to clear the fog, I shoot him what I’m sure is a weak, pathetic smile. “I’m fine.”
A throat clears behind us and I rip my gaze from the maybe-not-so-stranger, glancing behind me. Burning hot anger flushes my skin at the sight of Dylan standing there, still shirtless, still covered in another woman’s lipstick, still staring at me like I’m the shit on his shoe. “If you ever touch me again,” I start, my voice mercifully stronger and less shaky than I feel. “You’ll regret it.”
I don’t wait for a response before I dart downstairs and into the safety of the kitchen, allowing myself to become just another body in the crowd.
