by Stacey Kade
The bright spark of temptation surprises me. Not the sex—please—but the idea that he might have something else I want. College kids, I’ve found, have access to all kinds of prescriptions. Some that are written for them, others that are swiped out of medicine cabinets at home or at other people’s homes.
Not that this is news to anyone but me. I lived under my mother’s obsessive control for most of my life. I mean, she used to weigh what I ate. I didn’t recognize that as strange for years, not until after I’d joined the cast of Starlight and had spent time with other people close to my own age.
Getting high under my mother’s supervision would have been as impossible as eating a baker’s case of cheesecakes. Then when I finally broke free of her, however temporarily, getting drugs wasn’t a problem for me. Not at first, anyway.
And now, for just a fraction of a second, I want the heat of that oblivion again. Alcohol loosens your boundaries and lowers your inhibitions; Oxy—enough of it—makes you wonder why you ever bothered with them in the first place. It feels like you’ve never had a worry in your whole life. Which sounds pretty good right about now. Not just to dim the perpetual dull ache in my arm, but to ease these gnawing feelings of self-doubt and dread. The sensation that I have no idea what I’m doing. Getting high won’t fix that—it never does—but it certainly makes you care less, which was and continues to be part of the allure. Who cares that Eric showed up here just to use me? Who cares that my mom is selling me to the highest bidder? Who cares that I can’t make friends here at Blake?
Not me, certainly.
“What do you say?” Reese presses closer.
Once won’t hurt anything. It won’t be like last time. You can control it, and it’ll make you feel better, the addict in me whispers.
Lies.
I swallow hard against the dryness in the back of my throat and shake my head. “Not interested.” If I use tonight, I’d have to start over again, and I don’t know if I have the strength to do that.
But it’s too late. Behind Reese, Ginny turns and runs away. My sobriety is intact, but my friendship with Ginny may not be.
“Excuse me,” Tamara mutters, edging around me and glaring at Reese.
“Tamara,” I try, but she’s already gone, chasing down Ginny.
Damnit. I start to follow her. I have to find Ginny and explain.
But Reese’s hand locks around my wrist. “Oh, come on, I know you like to party. Everybody knows that.”
His fingers are too tight on my skin, and for a moment, in this dim corner, in a room where the black light already makes it hard to tell what’s going on, I’m afraid. Predators in Hollywood operate in daylight with freely proffered drugs, slick smiles, even slicker propositions. Rarely brute force. I’m not sure if anyone will be able to hear me protest if Reese tries to drag me away. But worse than that, I’m not sure if anyone here would care if they did.
But when I open my mouth, it’s not my words that come to the surface. Not “help!” or “let go!”
Instead it’s a line of Skye’s, one I’d memorized years ago.
“Touch me again, and your balls will regret it.” The words come out even and flat, sounding almost bored. I worked on the delivery of that one bit of dialogue for a couple of days, running it past Eric, trying to get it just right.
Reese takes a step back, startled.
Guess I got it.
I take advantage of his slackened grip and pull free. “Asshole.”
Another brother steps between us, shoving Reese back. “Bro, what the fuck are you doing?”
“Just talking, Carter.” He jerks his head at me in disgust, as if this is my fault. Then again, I am the one who threatened testicular damage. “None of your business.”
Carter pushes him back, away from me. “Go. Find somewhere else to be.”
Reese sneers at him. “Yeah? Good luck.” But he finally walks away.
Carter is only a little taller than me and possibly blond, though his hair is a lovely shade of blue at the moment. “Sorry, he’s a jerk.”
“Yeah,” I say, rubbing my wrist, not because it hurts but because I want to rid myself of the feeling of Reese’s fingers on my skin. “I can see that.”
Carter gives me a pleading smile. “Please don’t judge the rest of us by him.”
I shake my head and search the crowd for a glimpse of Tamara or Ginny. “I think I’m just going to find my friends and…”
Across the room, a visibly upset Ginny is wiping under her eyes. Oh, crap.
Tamara meets my gaze and jerks her chin in a sharp, negative motion.
“I’m just going to go,” I finish instead, a sinking feeling through my middle pulling like it’ll turn me inside out. I need to go home. And wallow in my absolute failure. Before I have to get on a plane in the morning—an entirely different kind of failure.
Why did I think this would work tonight? It’s been awkward and uncomfortable since I arrived on campus. I should have known better.
I wanted to prove something, and I did. I guess I was just hoping that it would work the other way, that it would be like putting a bookmark in my life here. A reason to come back, something to give me the push I’ll need to resist my mom. Proof that I’m right to resist.
“Thanks again,” I say to Carter, tipping my head toward where Reese had disappeared. I start to turn away. “See you.”
“Oh, don’t go yet,” Carter says, following me but careful not to step in front of me. “I know it’s probably been tough the last few months, people always watching you.”
I stop, surprised.
He lifts his shoulder. “My dad’s the mayor of Blake,” he says, making a face.
“You’re the mayor’s son?” I ask, amused. The town is only a little larger than the college itself. There are two fast-food restaurants, three stop lights and one gas station.
“The one and only.” He rolls his eyes. “Like it means anything to anyone outside of this dumb town, but everyone here seems to think it’s a big deal. They’re always watching, bitching to my dad about what I’m doing or not doing.” He sighs.
I relax slightly. “Sounds familiar.”
“I actually meant to introduce myself to you earlier, but I didn’t want to be one of those guys,” Carter says, ruffling his hand through his hair.
“Which guys?”
“The ones acting like idiots because you’re beautiful and they’re hoping they have a shot.” He stops abruptly, squeezing his eyes shut. “Okay, yeah, so now I’ve joined the league of idiots.”
He looks so chagrined with himself that I can’t help but laugh.
“Can I at least sign your shirt before you go?” he asks, opening his eyes. “Remind you to come find me after break?” He gives me such a hopeful look, with his purple highlighter in hand, that I can’t refuse. Nor am I inclined to tell him that my return after break isn’t exactly guaranteed, not anymore.
But this is the only conversation I’ve had all night—actually, all day—that hasn’t ended in disaster, and Carter is kind of cute and seemingly sweet. Very different from the others here. Maybe tonight won’t be a complete failure.
“Yeah,” I say, smiling at him. “Sure.”
4
ERIC
I really gotta hand it to these guys, the Phi Beta Whatevers. It’s smart. The black light gives them an excuse to make it dark, the highlighters and shirts provide a reason to have your hands all over the girls and their hands all over you, and then the alcohol lowers inhibitions. Instant party.
Yeah, it’s cheap and cheesy as hell, but smart, if you consider their goal is likely to hook up early and often. Hard to create a more conducive environment for that.
And Calista’s in the middle of it.
Beth tugs at my coat sleeve, and I bend down to hear her. “Do you still see her?” she asks, biting her lip anxiously.
“She’s in the corner across the room, talking to some girls.” Two of them are the same girls, I think, that upset her earlier t
his afternoon, but now, everything looks to be fine. Calista is smiling and signing the shorter one’s sleeve.
In other words, she’s perfectly fine, completely not in need of a rescue.
She even seems to be having a good time, though whatever a third girl—one with her shirt tied up to just under her breasts—is saying to her at the moment is pissing her off. I can’t hear anything over the music, but I know Callie. I especially know what she looks like when she’s angry and trying to hide it. Shoulders tight, teeth-baring smile, like if you get too close she might take a chunk out of you. A teacup Yorkie. Small but vicious.
But then the belly-shirt girl stomps off in a huff, and Calista and her two friends are back to talking, their heads tipped together.
Guilt rises anew in me, squeezing like a fist around my heart. She really does seem happy here. Maybe I was wrong. Wrong to call Lori. Wrong to drag her away. Fuck.
I reach for the lone cigarette in my pocket, the familiar feel of it soothing if nothing else. Smoking it would be even better, but I promised Katie.
You promised Katie a lot of things. None of them to do with taking this level of interest in Callie’s personal life.
I shift uncomfortably. “Maybe we should get out of here,” I say to Beth.
“Are you sure?” she asks, her forehead wrinkled with concern as she stands on her toes, trying to see Calista.
Beth’s a good kid. She was really worried about Calista. Enough to lie to get me in here.
Beth told the brothers at the door, in a stuttering but determined voice and with a face so red she looked sunburned, that I was her boyfriend. Her out-of-town boyfriend. And her guest for the party.
“Bethie, that guy is not your boyfriend. You don’t even have one,” the brother closest to the threshold said with a derisive snort.
Jesus, how small was this campus?
But Beth seemed to take his words to heart, curling into herself, like she wanted to shrink into one of the cracks between the porch floorboards.
The pang of sympathy for her caught me off guard and ignited my temper.
I wrapped my arm around her shaking shoulders and leaned down to whisper in Beth’s ear. “Chin up, Beth. He’s an asshole, and we don’t listen to assholes.”
Then I turned my attention to him. “You owe my girlfriend an apology,” I said pleasantly, stepping forward into his space.
Uncertainty flickered across his face, and he backed up immediately.
Check.
“She doesn’t … you don’t … I don’t know you, bro.” Flustered, he folded his arms across his chest, but not before looking for help from behind him.
And mate. They should never have put someone on crowd control who was so easily intimidated.
Then Beth surprised me. “Shut up, Steven. Just let us in,” she said, brassy as hell. Her face was still red, but now she was trembling with defiance rather than humiliation.
Good for her.
Steven looked shocked. “Bethie, he’s way too old for you.”
Ouch. Guess that meant my days of playing a teenager were growing short indeed.
“Bye, Steven,” she said firmly, before pushing past him and dragging me along after her.
We found Calista in the basement with her friends shortly after that. She was not hard to find, given that someone had scrawled “SKYE” in huge neon yellow letters between her shoulder blades—and then, beneath that, “bitch” in green—but I insisted that we keep our distance.
Now, twenty minutes later, I’m thinking perhaps it’s time to add even more distance. Steven has cruised through the room several times, glaring at me with every pass. And managing him wasn’t a problem, but if he decides to get a few more of his compatriots involved, it could be an issue. Bribery and smooth talking only go so far.
“I think Callie’s doing all right,” I say to Beth. As much as I don’t want to admit it.
“And she’ll be angry if she finds out that I…” I trail off as a guy from the pack in the center of the room makes a beeline for Calista. Should have known. It was only a matter of time.
He says something to her, and she shakes her head. That pattern repeats a couple more times, until the girls she’s with take off, leaving her alone with him.
Shit. He leans closer, and I can barely see her behind him now. The back of his shirt says Reese.
Then Calista tries to walk away, and he grabs her wrist.
My fingers crush the cigarette, spilling tobacco inside my pocket.
“Are you going to do something?” Beth squeaks.
It’s taking everything I have not to. But I have to wait. Calista will be pissed that I’m here, no matter what. But if I step in when she doesn’t need it, that will only make things worse.
A second later, she tips her chin up and says something to him, and whatever it is, it makes him step back.
She pulls free from him with a dirty look.
Yep. Small but vicious. Pride makes a smile pull at the corners of my mouth.
But even as that douche is walking off, another appears. Hands waving and gesturing toward Reese, the one who left, this guy seems to be apologizing. His shirt says Carter.
“She’s coming this way,” Beth says, tugging at my sleeve.
And she’s right, for a moment. But then this guy, Carter, catches up to her and whatever he says makes her stop and look in his direction.
He keeps talking, hands moving wildly, almost taking her eye out—because he’s only maybe an inch taller than her. And she smiles at him. A real smile. Not the get-away-from-me kind from earlier.
The clutching sensation in the pit of my stomach catches me off guard, and it takes me a second to identify it. Jealousy. Envy. Whatever.
I don’t have a right to either of those emotions. Not anymore. Not that I ever did.
“Come on,” I say to Beth. “We should go.” Before I have to watch her gaze adoringly up—no, across—at this fucker, and they end up walking past us when he takes her to his shitty room in this fire hazard of a shack.
I shake my head. Not my business. Not my problem.
It just feels like it.
“Okay,” Beth says reluctantly. But before we can turn away, Calista shifts, presenting her back to Carter, who has his purple highlighter uncapped.
In seconds, he’s on his knees behind her, still talk-talk-talking, and Calista is laughing at whatever he’s saying.
“Oh, no,” Beth says. “Shit.”
The profanity from her surprises me, and I glance over, expecting to see Steven and a handful of his buddies bearing down on us.
But she’s watching Calista and Carter.
“What?”
She frowns up at me, like she’s concerned about my ability to cross the street unsupervised. “Don’t you get how this works? Look at what he’s doing.”
The purple marks stand out easily on her back, amid the greens, yellows, oranges and blues. He appears to have the only purple highlighter in the joint.
And at first, I don’t understand her concern. He seems to be marking out other signatures on her back. The fresh ink and the color make it easy to track his movements. Though he doesn’t bother crossing out the “bitch” part, which would have been my first move.
But then it clicks. He’s only crossing through certain signatures. It’s hard to tell his pattern from here, except that the ones that are obviously from girls—flowers, hearts, floppy letters—he doesn’t bother with.
And then I get it. It’s a system of dibs. The brothers are attempting to stake claims via messages/signatures on the back of her shirt. Probably not just Calista’s, but she’s the one I care about.
And if I wasn’t sure about that, what the short asshole does next makes it very clear.
In the remaining white space at the center of her back, he writes in large letters, visible to anyone at a glance, “MINE. BY 11. CR.”
His initials. He’s fucking branding her.
And Calista is just letting him because she ha
s no idea what he’s writing, what others have written. She thinks he’s the nice one; that much is obvious, even from over here.
Calista, of all people, should know better than to fall for charm and a pretty face. But then again, maybe that’s exactly the problem. She still doesn’t know better, even now.
“I think we should…” Beth begins, but I’m past listening.
The white-hot fury I’m used to only feeling toward myself or my father is boiling up inside me.
It’s an easy thing to close the fifteen feet between us.
Calista turns to face Carter as he stands, so she sees it when I slam into him, knocking him to the ground. She gapes at me for a second before she finds her words. “Eric! What are you doing?” She sounds horrified.
Before I can answer, Carter bounces back up. Not hard to do when it’s such a short distance. “Hey bro, you’re not welcome here. Get the fuck out.”
He shoves back at me with a surprising amount of force.
“Eric. You need to leave,” Calista says, baring her teeth. “You don’t own me. You don’t own every aspect of my—”
“I think you’re confusing me with your mother,” I say tightly, and she reels away from me, like I’ve struck her.
“You’re trespassing. If you don’t get out now, you’ll be sorry, man,” Carter says, bouncing on his toes, as if this is a boxing ring.
By now people are staring. And I can see his fellow brothers watching from various points in the basement. This could get ugly, and quickly.
I feel a flicker of anticipation.
“I’m sure,” I say to Carter. The smirk is, unfortunately, automatic.
Several people, not the least of which my own father, have told me that I have a uniquely punchable face, a quality in my features that makes people want to hit me. “Smug bastard,” I believe, is what Calista used to call it.
And apparently, Carter is not immune. Without further warning, he takes a swing and connects.
