“Seriously, Val? What the hell is that?”
She flicks the invitation in my lap. The heavy cream is completely blank. “UV ink. So it can’t be copied.”
“Really?” I run my fingers over the stock and feel nothing but the paper itself. “What’s so special about a high school party that there needs to be guards and gates and top-secret invitations?”
I toss the invite onto the dash and pull through the now open gate.
“They like to limit the crowd,” she replies.
“Wish they’d use their powers to keep assholes out,” I mutter. I haven’t seen Daniel Delacorte yet, but I know he’s still at school, walking the halls of Astor as if nothing happened between us.
“If the asshole has money, he’s getting in.”
She’s right, but it doesn’t make me happier. The pounding bass pouring out of the Montgomery house greets us even before we turn onto their cul-de-sac. We have to park at the end of a long line of cars leading up a hill.
Val guides me through the main room and onto the porch. The Montgomery house is ultra-modern, all weird angles and planes and windows and steel. The backyard pool is lit up from underneath and there are spouts of water springing out of the concrete to arc into the water, but no one is swimming because it’s too cold.
“I’m getting something to drink. What do you want?” Val asks, pointing to a cooler.
“Beer is fine.”
I spot Reed in the far corner of the porch. A fairy with big-ass wings and a floral crown is talking to him. Ugh. It’s Abby. Their heads are bent close enough that his dark brown hair is brushing the edges of her petals. That sounds vaguely pornographic. The scene is sickeningly similar to one of the first memories I have of Reed.
Abby was his last girlfriend. Maybe she was his only girlfriend. Reed, unlike Easton, is picky. He slept with Abby, and then Brooke.
I don’t know the rest of his sexual history. Maybe that was it. Maybe he lost his virginity to Abby. Maybe there’s a bond that will always draw them back together.
Daniel, the rapist, once said those two belong together.
Is that true?
Do I care?
Of course I do. And I hate myself for it.
I turn away before I do something outrageous, like march over to them and tear Abby’s hair out and order Reed to stop talking to her because he’s mine.
I’m not sure that was ever true, even during those private times when his fingers were in my hair and his tongue was in my mouth and his hand was between my legs.
Inside, the house is filled with tight corsets, fake-blood spattered clothes, and probably even some fake boobs. Almost everyone has a costume on, except for a few. The nonconformists include the Royals. Those boys wear T-shirts and shredded jeans. When I first saw them, I labeled them thugs. They don’t look like prep-school kids. They look like dock workers with their heavy muscles, broad shoulders, and messy hair.
People turn as we walk in, and I instantly regret my outfit. I’m the only slutty football player here, so once again I’ve made a spectacle of myself. It’s strange because in the past I’ve been so good at blending in, but ever since I came here I’ve been doing things that unwittingly put me in the spotlight.
Fighting with Jordan.
Making out with Easton.
Hooking up with Reed.
Running away.
Wearing this ridiculous outfit.
I grab Val. “I need to change. Or at least wash my face.” The heavy black stripes under my eyes look dumb compared to the perfectly made-up faces of all these princesses and ballerinas. It’s like Disney threw up in here—the adult, after-hours Disney.
“You look gorgeous,” Val protests.
“No. If I’m going to make it through these next two years, I need to tone it down.”
Val shakes her head in disagreement but points a hand down the hall. “I’ll wait here for you.”
It’s easy to find the bathroom because there’s already a line. I slump against the wall. Why am I trying to make everyone notice me? Is it because I want Reed to pay attention?
The line shortens and finally the two girls in front of me push inside. I hear a snippet of conversation as the door opens.
“Abby with Easton? I don’t believe you. Abby would never ruin her chances of getting back with Reed by sleeping with his brother.”
“Why? It worked for that Ella girl. She made out with East at Moonglow and then, bam, she was with Reed.”
“So, what, like Easton preps the girls for his brother?”
“Who knows. Maybe they’re like the twins, which is gross.” There’s a long pause. “Oh my God, Cynthie! You think that’s hot?”
“I don’t know. Like, come on, you wouldn’t want to be the meat in that sandwich? If it’s wrong, maybe I don’t want to be right.”
There’s complete silence and then a huge fit of laughter followed by one of the girls saying, “Fuck, marry, kill the Royals.”
The door swings shut, but I can still hear them. I make a mental note to turn on the faucet when I pee since the walls here are tissue thin.
“There are five of them, Anna,” Cynthie complains.
“So pick three.”
“Fine. Fuck Reed, kill Gideon, and marry Easton.”
Something seizes up inside me at the thought of another girl with Reed. Hard enough to see him with Abby. I don’t need to envision him with a whole line of girls waiting to screw him.
“Easton’s a dog,” Anna protests.
“He’s a doll,” Cynthie says. “And reformed bad boys make the best husbands according to my maw-maw. Now you.”
Okay, maybe Cynthie isn’t all that bad. Easton really is the sweetest guy under all that bravado.
“Marry Gideon, because he’s the oldest and will end up running the Royal business. Screw Easton, because he has to have learned something for all the time he’s spent up girls’ skirts. Kill the twins.”
“Both of them?”
“Pretty much.”
I wince. Harsh. Anna is harsh.
“Abby and Reed looked cozy outside, didn’t they?” a honeyed voice whispers in my ear, interrupting my eavesdropping.
Ugh. Jordan Carrington. She’s not in costume, which is a shame. She would’ve made a fantastic witch.
“Don’t you have a boiling pot to stir?” I ask sweetly.
“Don’t you have a Royal to screw?”
She flicks the invitation in my lap. The heavy cream is completely blank. “UV ink. So it can’t be copied.”
“Really?” I run my fingers over the stock and feel nothing but the paper itself. “What’s so special about a high school party that there needs to be guards and gates and top-secret invitations?”
I toss the invite onto the dash and pull through the now open gate.
“They like to limit the crowd,” she replies.
“Wish they’d use their powers to keep assholes out,” I mutter. I haven’t seen Daniel Delacorte yet, but I know he’s still at school, walking the halls of Astor as if nothing happened between us.
“If the asshole has money, he’s getting in.”
She’s right, but it doesn’t make me happier. The pounding bass pouring out of the Montgomery house greets us even before we turn onto their cul-de-sac. We have to park at the end of a long line of cars leading up a hill.
Val guides me through the main room and onto the porch. The Montgomery house is ultra-modern, all weird angles and planes and windows and steel. The backyard pool is lit up from underneath and there are spouts of water springing out of the concrete to arc into the water, but no one is swimming because it’s too cold.
“I’m getting something to drink. What do you want?” Val asks, pointing to a cooler.
“Beer is fine.”
I spot Reed in the far corner of the porch. A fairy with big-ass wings and a floral crown is talking to him. Ugh. It’s Abby. Their heads are bent close enough that his dark brown hair is brushing the edges of her petals. That sounds vaguely pornographic. The scene is sickeningly similar to one of the first memories I have of Reed.
Abby was his last girlfriend. Maybe she was his only girlfriend. Reed, unlike Easton, is picky. He slept with Abby, and then Brooke.
I don’t know the rest of his sexual history. Maybe that was it. Maybe he lost his virginity to Abby. Maybe there’s a bond that will always draw them back together.
Daniel, the rapist, once said those two belong together.
Is that true?
Do I care?
Of course I do. And I hate myself for it.
I turn away before I do something outrageous, like march over to them and tear Abby’s hair out and order Reed to stop talking to her because he’s mine.
I’m not sure that was ever true, even during those private times when his fingers were in my hair and his tongue was in my mouth and his hand was between my legs.
Inside, the house is filled with tight corsets, fake-blood spattered clothes, and probably even some fake boobs. Almost everyone has a costume on, except for a few. The nonconformists include the Royals. Those boys wear T-shirts and shredded jeans. When I first saw them, I labeled them thugs. They don’t look like prep-school kids. They look like dock workers with their heavy muscles, broad shoulders, and messy hair.
People turn as we walk in, and I instantly regret my outfit. I’m the only slutty football player here, so once again I’ve made a spectacle of myself. It’s strange because in the past I’ve been so good at blending in, but ever since I came here I’ve been doing things that unwittingly put me in the spotlight.
Fighting with Jordan.
Making out with Easton.
Hooking up with Reed.
Running away.
Wearing this ridiculous outfit.
I grab Val. “I need to change. Or at least wash my face.” The heavy black stripes under my eyes look dumb compared to the perfectly made-up faces of all these princesses and ballerinas. It’s like Disney threw up in here—the adult, after-hours Disney.
“You look gorgeous,” Val protests.
“No. If I’m going to make it through these next two years, I need to tone it down.”
Val shakes her head in disagreement but points a hand down the hall. “I’ll wait here for you.”
It’s easy to find the bathroom because there’s already a line. I slump against the wall. Why am I trying to make everyone notice me? Is it because I want Reed to pay attention?
The line shortens and finally the two girls in front of me push inside. I hear a snippet of conversation as the door opens.
“Abby with Easton? I don’t believe you. Abby would never ruin her chances of getting back with Reed by sleeping with his brother.”
“Why? It worked for that Ella girl. She made out with East at Moonglow and then, bam, she was with Reed.”
“So, what, like Easton preps the girls for his brother?”
“Who knows. Maybe they’re like the twins, which is gross.” There’s a long pause. “Oh my God, Cynthie! You think that’s hot?”
“I don’t know. Like, come on, you wouldn’t want to be the meat in that sandwich? If it’s wrong, maybe I don’t want to be right.”
There’s complete silence and then a huge fit of laughter followed by one of the girls saying, “Fuck, marry, kill the Royals.”
The door swings shut, but I can still hear them. I make a mental note to turn on the faucet when I pee since the walls here are tissue thin.
“There are five of them, Anna,” Cynthie complains.
“So pick three.”
“Fine. Fuck Reed, kill Gideon, and marry Easton.”
Something seizes up inside me at the thought of another girl with Reed. Hard enough to see him with Abby. I don’t need to envision him with a whole line of girls waiting to screw him.
“Easton’s a dog,” Anna protests.
“He’s a doll,” Cynthie says. “And reformed bad boys make the best husbands according to my maw-maw. Now you.”
Okay, maybe Cynthie isn’t all that bad. Easton really is the sweetest guy under all that bravado.
“Marry Gideon, because he’s the oldest and will end up running the Royal business. Screw Easton, because he has to have learned something for all the time he’s spent up girls’ skirts. Kill the twins.”
“Both of them?”
“Pretty much.”
I wince. Harsh. Anna is harsh.
“Abby and Reed looked cozy outside, didn’t they?” a honeyed voice whispers in my ear, interrupting my eavesdropping.
Ugh. Jordan Carrington. She’s not in costume, which is a shame. She would’ve made a fantastic witch.
“Don’t you have a boiling pot to stir?” I ask sweetly.
“Don’t you have a Royal to screw?”
