6. Vodka, Lime And Old Flames
CHAPTER 6
VODKA, LIME AND OLD FLAMES
NORA
"Wow." The word escapes me in a breath as I take in the chaos before us. Jake runs a hand through his tousled chestnut hair, his eyes following mine as we scan the room.
"Yeah, I guess I forgot to mention it gets a little wild with these people." He catches my stunned expression and grasps both of my hands, his touch grounding me in the mayhem. "We can bail if you want?”
"No, it's okay," I manage, though my heart pounds against my ribs like a trapped bird.
I'd braced myself for the typical markers of wealth—marble floors, soaring chandeliers, artwork worth more than my college tuition.
But this? This is a collision of worlds: old money meets frat house chaos. Farrah's guest list seems to include half the town's population, transforming the mansion's vast foyer and sunken living area into a writhing sea of bodies.
The air is thick with perfume, sweat, and spilled drinks. Bass thunders from the DJ booth near the pool, vibrating through my bones. Couples tangle in shadowed corners while a girl in a gossamer dress twirls through the crowd, lost in her own private dance.
Eden isn't just a place—it's the place in the summertime. But this isn't your average college party; it's an elitist playground where old-money families have interwoven their lives for generations. The last time I attended one of these parties, invisibility became my shield. Tonight, I'm hoping for the same superpower.
Jake's arm threads through mine as we navigate the crowd, his presence an anchor in the chaos. "Thirsty?" he asks.
My eyes betray me, drifting to Nate by the pool. A tall blonde—Farrah, I assume—clings to him, her dress barely more than a whisper against her skin. The sight twists something deep in my chest. "Actually, a drink sounds good," I say, hoping the tremor in my voice isn't as obvious as it feels.
"Vodka or beer?"
"Surprise me," I respond with a smile that doesn't quite reach my eyes. If I'm going to survive tonight, I need something to dull these sharp edges.
"You good to wait here a sec?" Jake's tone is light, but his eyes search mine with concern.
"Sure." The thought of diving into that sea of bodies makes my anxiety spike higher than it already is.
"All right, I'll be right back. Don't get into trouble while I'm gone," he says before heading for the bar.
I watch as Jake weaves through the crowd, his confident stride and easy smile drawing attention like a magnet. When did he become Eden's most eligible bachelor? Sure, his swimmer's build explains the lingering glances, but I run on black coffee and cynicism these days—I'm immune to that all-American charm.
My gaze drifts back to Farrah and Nate. Her delicate features and glossy lips seem ready for a photoshoot, one arm draped possessively around his neck while the other holds a champagne flute. While Nate looks simultaneously bored and tense as she whispers in his ear. When he catches my eye, I quickly look away, still rattled by our intense encounter this morning.
Jake returns with two drinks. "Vodka, lime, and soda for the lady."
"You're drinking?" I ask, surprised.
"Vodka, lime, and soda—minus the vodka. Got to keep this body in top form.” He winks, nodding toward Ollie, who's working his charm on a pretty brunette. "And I've got to get you and that mess home safely."
Jake can read my distraction. "You sure you're okay?"
"Yeah." I force a smile, but my eyes betray me as they notice Nate and Farrah's absence. Anxiety coils in my stomach like a spring. I take a long sip of my drink; it burns a path down my throat.
Do people actually enjoy this?
"Whoa, easy tiger. I already have one Wells sibling I'm babysitting tonight," Jake teases.
"Ollie's the only one who needs babysitting," I retort with a smirk that masks the chaos beneath. Truth is, I'm barely holding it together—the anxiety is suffocating, and seeing Nate makes my skin feel too tight for my body.
"There are a few people I want to say hi to. Want to come?" Jake offers.
"No, you go," I say, the thought of small talk sending fresh waves of unease through me. Stay invisible , I remind myself.
"Are you sure? I could introduce you."
"No, it's fine, really. Go. I'll find you later." Another reassuring smile. I can always find a quiet corner to hide in until he's ready to leave.
"Okay, I'll come find you in a bit. Try to have some fun, yeah?" he says, playfully tapping my nose like when we were kids.
I watch Jake move through the crowd with enviable ease, unaffected by the whispers and glances that follow him. Meanwhile, I'm dodging spilled drinks and overeager partiers, feeling like a fish swimming upstream.
The party pulses with increasing intensity as more bodies pour in, until the mansion seems to breathe with their collective energy. Tables once decorated with family photos now host drinking games and lines of white powder. The music pounds through my bones, making thought itself difficult.
I keep my head down, trying to navigate the chaos, when I collide with what feels like a brick wall.
"Shit, sorry," I mutter.
"Holy shit, is that you, Lenora Wells?" A husky voice cuts through the noise, and I look up into Connor James's face.
Connor James—Ivy League royalty personified. Since I last saw him, the boy has evolved into something more dangerous: sharp jawline, carefully disheveled hair, shirt unbuttoned just enough to hint at a sculpted torso. His charm still radiates like a gravitational field.
"Connor. Hey," I say, the words feeling artificial on my tongue.
"Damn, Wells. You aged up nicely."
I force a smile, swallowing my discomfort. "Thanks. You, uh, same.” I gesture vaguely at his torso, earning a laugh that sounds practiced.
"I didn't expect to see you here."
"That makes two of us," I murmur.
"Sullivan let you out on your own for once, huh?" The comment stings with its implications.
"I'm here with Jake."
"Oh yeah? Where is the little guy?" His condescension hasn't changed since I last knew him.
"He's around."
"And he's left you out here all alone?"
"Are you under the impression I can't fend for myself?"
"No, I didn't mean—uh." He runs his fingers through his hair, flustered. "I just meant??—"
"I'm pulling your leg. Relax."
He flashes that practiced smile again. "You're pretty funny. And pretty in general, too."
I suppress an eye roll and pretend to sip my drink.
"You do not look like you're enjoying that."
"Does anyone actually enjoy drinking?" My rhetorical question draws another calculated laugh.
"What are you, sixteen going on sixty?"
"May as well be." My eyes continue scanning the crowd for a specific face.
"Do you want to go somewhere quieter?" he suggests, leaning closer.
"Go somewhere?"
"It's just really loud in here, and I don't want to be yelling all night."
"What makes you think I want to talk to you all night?"
"I take it back, you're very funny." He leans in, beer breath washing over me.
"I think I'll get another drink."
"Please, let me. I'll get you something that tastes less like ass and is actually enjoyable." He winks and vanishes into the crowd before I can protest.
The social overwhelm hits its peak, and I decide it's time to find Jake. Maybe I should take him up on his offer and get out of here. But as I turn to search for him, fate proves its cruel sense of humor—Nate appears before me, his presence both magnetic and suffocating.
And boy does he looked pissed to see me.
His arms trap me for the second time today, but this encounter crackles with a different energy. He plants his palms against the wall on either side of me, his muscled forearms flexing as he leans in. I'm caged between his broad shoulders and the cold wall at my back, close enough to catch the faint scent of his cologne.
The space between us shrinks to nothing but charged air. His eyes blaze with anger, clearly unhappy to see me here. His body is coiled tension, jaw clenched tight, the strong column of his neck betraying a pulse that hammers as rapidly as my own. I could count each dark eyelash if I wanted to, we're that close—close enough that I feel the heat radiating from him, see the smallest flecks of color in his irises as they narrow on mine.
"What are you doing here?"
"Hi to you too," I retort, my irritation rising to match his.
"You shouldn't be here." His voice is razor-sharp.
I scoff, “You should stick to sparkling water; it might lighten your mood."
He takes a small step back, his eyes rake over me, leaving burn marks in their wake. "What the actual fuck are you wearing?" he sneers, his gaze glassy and hollow—any warmth from this morning has evaporated, replaced by drug-induced fog and simmering rage.
Oh, now he wants to pick a fight?
I pull away from his hold, squaring my shoulders. "Clothing," I say flatly.
"That glorified washcloth is not clothing. You look ridiculous," he mocks, pulling out a cigarette and lighting it with deliberate slowness, while completely disregarding the fact that we’re indoors.
Is he for real right now?
I fight the urge to shrink beneath his criticism, to cover the parts of myself he's made me doubt. Instead, his sneer ignites something defiant in me.
"Well, good to know your eyes are working," I snap back, plastering on a sweet smile. "Connor seems to like it."
“He likes it because he can see your tits and is probably picturing his face between them," Nate retorts, exhaling smoke like venom.
In one fluid motion, I snatch the cigarette from his lips and drop it in my untouched drink. "Very vivid image you're painting, Nate. Almost sounds like you've pictured it yourself."
He crowds me against a table I hadn't noticed, caging me with his arms once again. His dark hair falls in his eyes but can't hide his dilated pupils or bloodshot whites. I force my expression neutral, even as my heart races at our proximity.
Without warning or taking his eyes off me, he shrugs off his button-up and thrusts it at me. "Put it on."
"I'm good, thanks," I say coolly.
"Why are you being so fucking difficult?" His breath is mint and spice, tinged with weed—an intoxicating combination that does nothing to calm my nerves.
"It seems you're the one with a problem here, Nate." I shove his shirt back at him and pat his chest lightly. Our faces inches apart, tension crackling between us.
Connor's voice cuts through the moment. "Sullivan, stop bothering my date." He drapes an arm around my shoulders, radiating smug satisfaction while holding two beer bottles.
I don't look at Nate, but I feel the fury rolling off him in waves.
Nate's control snaps. "She's not your date."
"I think Nora is old enough now to not need a babysitter," Connor counters smoothly, then turns to me with a conspiratorial glance. "Besides, we have some catching up to do, right?"
"We do," I affirm, tasting victory.
Nate looks ready to explode. I twist the knife deeper, nodding toward Farrah at the bar. "I think your girlfriend is waiting for you."
I get rid of the beer bottles and take Connor's hand. “Come on, let's dance Connor.”
We leave Nate to stew in his anger as we join the pulsing crowd on the dance floor. Bodies press close, the air thick with sweat and bass. Connor pulls me into his rhythm, hands finding my hips. "He looked like he was about to pop a blood vessel," he chuckles.
"Connor, just dance," I cut him off, not interested in dissecting Nate's reactions.
"Damn, Wells, you're not the shy little girl anymore. Kind of sexy," he murmurs appreciatively.
I turn, pressing my back against him, arms threading behind his neck as I lose myself to the music. Across the room, Nate's gaze burns into us. If looks could kill, we'd both be ash.
Connor's hands grow bolder, his breath hot on my neck, pushing past my comfort zone and I start to panic.
“I, uhh… I need to use the bathroom," I blurt, needing escape.
"I can come?" he offers, half-joking.
"To help with what exactly?"
"Well, there are a few things I can think of," he smirks.
"I'm good," I state firmly, pulling away before he can respond.
I weave through the crowd, past a coffee table where lines of cocaine disappear amid cheers. I don't know where I'm going; I just need space.
Door after door yields no bathroom, until Jake's voice catches me. "There you are." His arm finds it’s way around my shoulders.
"Why is it so hard to find a bathroom in this place? Shouldn't there be like twelve on this floor?" I deflect, trying to lighten my mood.
Jake laughs and leads me around the corner to a line of drunk teenagers waiting for the bathroom.
"So when did you become such a ladies' man?" I tease.
"Shut up.” He nudges me, blushing. "Hang on, are you implying that I'm hot?"
"In my eyes, you'll forever be the kid who ate purple crayons."
"I was testing if they actually tasted like grapes," he protests, "and you promised that would be our secret."
I mime zipping my lips, but our levity fades as Jake sobers. "So, Nate's pissed off because I brought you here."
"I'm aware," I reply, masking frustration with a tight smile. "Is there anything that doesn't piss him off these days?"
Jake straightens, tension visible. "It's Nate's world, we're all just living in it," he says, sarcasm barely masking truth.
"Well, in the real world, not everything revolves around what ticks your brother off," I counter.
"Welcome to what my life has been like for the past two years," he agrees with a hollow laugh. "I'm going to check on Ollie. You okay now?”
I nod. "Make sure Ollie doesn't propose or do something stupid."
Jake salutes before disappearing into the crowd.
When I finally make it to the front of the cue, I feel relief. Closing the door behind me, feels like shutting out the entire world. Silence descends like a blessing, and I release a breath, letting the quiet wash over me like cool water.
Breathe.
Just breathe.