If she's surprised by my lack of interest, she doesn't show it. In fact, she looks like she couldn't really give a shit less that I'm even standing there. "Not happening," she replies. "This is an order. You'll be at the Frazier House tonight. Party starts at nine. Be late or be early. I don't really care. But you'll be there."
"Highly unlikely," I say. “I don’t take orders.”
“It’s from the Eastpoint heirs,” she states.
“You mean the Sick Boys?” I inquire, clarifying. She nods and that only solidifies my answer. “Well then,” I say, pulling a pen from my bag and reaching for the invitation. I scribble down a message and slide it back to the girl. “You can tell them that this is my answer.” I leave the invitation on the table and make for the exit.
As I step out onto the sidewalk, another yawn catches me off guard. Scrubbing a hand down my face, I tilt my head up until I’m staring at the layer of clouds hovering above the buildings. This entire week has been a battle. The Sick Boys. The adjustment. Trying to sleep with a virtual stranger in the same room—impossible. I feel constantly watched, like a fish in a tank or a bug under a microscope. It only makes my internal cravings even worse.
I drag my dead tired ass back to the dorm, and some sort of fucking deity must be looking down on me favorably because for once, Rylie isn’t here. Which can only mean one thing for me. Without a second thought, I drop my bag, snap the blinds shut, lock the door, and crawl beneath the covers of my bed. Just a few hours, I promise myself. My eyes close all on their own and now that I’m all alone, I fall into the best fucking sleep I’ve had in days.
Despite how tired I am, however, I’m a light sleeper—years of living with Patricia and her string of annoyingly persistent addict boyfriends has nailed that into me. When the lock on the door disengages, my eyes pop open and I sit up just as Rylie comes through with a square envelope in her hand. “Hey,” she says, “this was poking out from under the door. It’s got your name on it.”
She tosses it onto the end of my bed and then goes to her desk. From the corner of my eyes, I watch her as she unloads her textbooks along with a fairly high quality laptop. That’s one thing I’ve noticed about her—while the rest of her shit is old and often broken or fraying—she’s got a bomb ass laptop. I’m curious as to why that is, but girls like us know one thing if we know anything at all—prying is a no go. Whatever she does—so long as it doesn’t affect me—is her business.
I lift the card and a hiss of irritation escapes through my teeth when I realize what it is. The same fucking invitation the chick from the library had tried to give me. Interestingly enough, though, the note I wrote on it is gone. So, it’s not exactly the same one. It’s a brand new invitation.
Curiosity has me opening the envelope and pulling the card out of its confines.
You are hereby invited to the Frazier House
1400 Eastpoint Avenue
9 p.m.
I notice that as Rylie opens her laptop on her desk, she keeps her gaze glued to the screen and more specifically, away from me. I grin.
“You know what this is, don’t you?” I ask, waving the card in her direction.
“Nope.” The little pop she makes as she says the word is all it takes.
“Liar.” I laugh, shaking my head and tossing the card and its envelope into the nearby trash can. “Doesn’t matter, anyway. I’m not going.”
Her fingers still against the keyboard and she bites down on her lower lip hard as if she’s trying to convince herself not to say whatever it is she’s thinking. I start a mental countdown in my head:
Five...
Four...
Three…
Two…
Just as the last number crosses my mind, she flips her body towards me. “You’re going to make this a hell of a lot worse on yourself if you don’t just go and get it over with,” she snaps.
“Get what over with?” I ask innocently.
Her eyes narrow. “You’re going to get yourself in so much fucking trouble,” she says instead of answering.
“Good,” I reply. “That’s definitely something I excel at and it’s been too long since I had a healthy dose of it.” Maybe proving that I can’t be fucking controlled by these Sick Boys will give me that rush of adrenaline I’ve been craving.
“Yeah, well, maybe it’s fun for you, but not for me. I try to avoid trouble when it comes my way.”
“Do you now?” I say, more than a little hint of sarcasm in my tone.
Before she has a chance to respond, my stomach rumbles, interrupting whatever she might have said, and I take that as my cue to end this conversation. I toss the covers off and reach for my shoes. It’s dark outside now and one glance at my phone tells me that the cafeteria has long since closed. Only thing left to do is hit the gas station down the street and hope for a cheap, not yet stale pre-wrapped sandwich—a delicacy from my hometown.
“I’ll be back later,” I call out as I snatch my keys up and shove them into my pocket.
I’m already halfway out the door when I hear her muttered response. “Not likely.”
I pause in the hallway, looking back. I wonder if she really thinks I’ll go to their stupid party. Because there’s zero chance of that happening. At least, not willingly.
My stomach rumbles again, making an uncomfortable whining noise, and I hightail it out of the building. The red and white neon sign of the gas station comes into view minutes later as I pick up the pace. Hot dogs, I think. I could really go for a fucking hot dog rather than a sandwich.
In the distance, a car engine rumbles and a loud mixture of rap and rock thump out of old speakers. It grows steadily closer until a red Mustang convertible speeds by and pulls into the gas station parking lot just as I hit the sidewalk in front of it. I freeze when the doors open and three familiar figures emerge.
With the top down, it’s easy to see them, and I pause. The driver is none other than frontman—Abel Frazier—the dude from my class, and out of the back seat, his massively tall friend leaps over the side of the car—his shoes hitting the pavement hard as he bounces a little on his feet. But they’re not the only reason for my pause. Unlike the other two, who simply crawled over the side of the vehicle, the passenger door swings open and a long booted foot hits the ground.
I should’ve known he’d be friends with the douches…
Abel’s head turns and he stops, eyes locking on me for a brief moment before his lips spread into a grin. “Well, well, well, if it isn’t our princess.”
I cross my arms over my chest. “Well, well, well,” I respond, “if it isn’t dumb and dumber. Oh look, you brought a friend. Let me guess, his name is dumbest?”
He laughs at that. “Did you get the invitation to our little shindig tonight?” he asks.
I step off the curb and cut around the back of their car as I head for the front door of the gas station. “Sure did,” I call back. “Hope you liked my reply.”
As I reach the doors of the station, I look up and meet the eyes of the asshole who’d nearly smacked me with a door earlier that week. They’re dark and watchful. Almost predatory. If Abel responds, I don’t hear it. I’m too focused on this guy’s expression. His smile is small, but fuck if it doesn’t send shivers down my spine.