With small, slow backward shuffles of my feet, I bring myself back into view, and my eyes shoot wide.
Holy. Shit.
I turn fully, facing the mirror head-on, and a disbelieving laugh bubbles its way up my throat, but I quickly swallow it.
The cold hands, the chill that met my skin...
Paint.
Paint that can only be seen with the help of a specific type of light.
A black-fucking-light.
I look from the large, hot pink handprint on my neck, wide and strong and flawless, pressed and held there without so much as a protest, to the fluorescent blue finger trails that run along my chest. I shift slightly, a low curse leaving me.
Perfect palm prints cover my ass, both broad and curled, a shape one can only manage with a nice, full grasp, they’re so perfectly placed.
My body heats all over again as I inspect their artwork.
Around me, people begin to slow their steps as the bright neon along my dress catches their eye.
You little fuckers.
This place may be dark as hell and they might have been blanketed in black, but it’s so easy to see this little fun of theirs for what it is—their attempt to shift me into a spoiled girl’s freak-out session. Little do they know, I don’t exactly have one of those. It’s one of the things that makes my mother crazy. I tend to brush things off—it’s a waste of energy and time and worst of all, shit like that steals your sleep.
Screw that.
But the more I think about the why, the more unlikely it seems that three guys who don’t care what others think about them would go through all the trouble of the beckoning and the seduction, just to make it a show of a conquest.
This feels a lot more like a challenge.
I can avoid sticky situations all I want, but can ‘Trouble’ get herself out of trouble?
It’s with that thought that I take quick steps, hauling my ass back to the room they left me in. I throw the door open, flick the light on, and apologize to the couple now occupying the space.
I whip around, and sure enough, dropped perfectly in the corner where they had stood are three palm-size bottles of paint.
So much for a blank canvas, I can pretty much hear Ransom’s thoughts.
“Well-played, assholes.”
“Excuse you!” the girl snaps.
My eyes cut toward the glaring couple, and I toss them one, forcing the dude’s hand to fly up to catch it. “Put it on your hands and go to town.”
Without another word, I’m out of the room, through the hall, and with far more sass than before, I step back into the main party.
With one tube tucked beneath my arm, I pour some of the blue onto my palms and rub it in, slipping closer to the drink table where Cali stands with a group, and run my palm over her lower back, blowing her a kiss when she glances over her shoulder. She smiles and turns back to her conversation, and I continue on, placing my hands on someone’s shoulder as I slip by, on another’s hip as I squeeze between a few others, on my march toward Jules and the gang.
Scott, in his ridiculous white jeans, spots me coming, his words fading off as he glares at my dress on approach. He pushes to his feet, so I squeeze a fresh amount of paint over my fingers and rub it in.
I place one hand on his chest, and grip his bicep with the other, dragging it down his arm until I reach his fingers, where I steal his drink, downing it as my own.
Jules giggles from my left, her eyes bouncing over my outfit, and before she can ask, I’m handing her a bottle; she’s got it on her hands and is cupping her man’s junk.
Dax passes off his drink to me, so I down that one, too, and join Cali and a few other girls when they call me to the dance floor.
The last tube of paint is passed between them, and within minutes, everyone near is popping with a sexually placed flare of color.
When the way the girls move manages to get my blood pumping again, I laugh at myself, grab my shit, and go.
Clearly, I need to get laid.
The front door is pulled open by one of the guards, and I waste no time slipping out and down the porch steps, but before I make it to the sidewalk, high beams flash from the driveway across the street, the rev of an engine following.
A smirk curls my lips, but I don’t play good little soldier and report to the general’s call.
I stay exactly where I am, and what do you know...
They come to me.
The night is cool, but not cold, or at least it’s not on the city roads we’re cruising down. I’m sure their little cave is freezing right about now—the midnight ocean breeze is no joke.
I drop my head against the headrest, rolling my head to look at Beretta, who is behind the wheel this time.
His dark hair blows gently with the wind, and every few minutes, he runs a hand through it to help push it back.
It’s not some vain attempt to keep his standard ‘I wake up like this’ vibe, but simply him, relaxed and rolling down old roads he must be familiar with, an easy grin on his face. I’m not sure where we’re going, but I slipped into the passenger seat without pausing to ask, so I guess that means I don’t care.
I probably should after what happened tonight. Not that anything happened, per se, but it could have.
Obviously, I was in no shape to protest.
Obviously, I didn’t want to...
I hadn’t even had a single drink before the one Arsen served me, so yeah, I was stone-cold sober.
Momentarily drunk on lust.
Again, I need to spend some time under the covers.
My eyes lift to Beretta’s deep brown locks as they fall forward once more, the gust of the wind sweeping over the sides of the car as we turn left at a stop sign.
My fingers lift, gently slipping into his soft hair, swiping it out of the way for him, and he cuts me a quick glance, his grin holding as he faces forward.
As my hand begins to fall back in place, I catch Arsen’s eyes in the mirror.
He holds mine for a few seconds, looking away in the next, and when I face forward, I realize we’re pulling into a parking garage in front of a boarded-up, abandoned office complex covered in graffiti.
My features tighten as I look around, not another car in sight, and I’m about to ask what this little stop is about, but then he turns left, toward the giant ‘do not enter’ sign, where there once was an entrance. We curve around the lower level, the proof of the night disappearing as we’re now underground, and not alone.
At least two dozen other cars fill the warm lit place, and my head snaps right when the echo of a door closing reaches us.
A girl, maybe nineteen-ish stands there, straightening her short blue wig before she slings a small purse over her shoulder, the box-style clutch meeting the skin of her thigh, her leopard print dress is so short. She looks to the car she climbed out of and pops her hip out. Finally, the passenger side door of the yellow Volkswagen opens, and a guy climbs out.
He doesn’t spare her a glance, but she hooks her arm into his and together, they walk in a direction I can’t see.
“Where are we?” I ask, slowly looking to Beretta since he’s the one in the seat beside me.
His grin is deep, and he unbuckles his seat belt, so I do the same, climbing from the car as he does, the others right behind us.
They begin forward, the top to the convertible folding behind us, but I lean my ass on the door, crossing my arms.
It takes them three whole steps to realize I’m not at their side, and they pause, three glares swinging my way.