33. 15 Warbey Ave
Every week, Brandy begs me to go to parties with her again. I have no idea how she keeps hearing about these things because I never know anything until she barges in the room like a madwoman to tell me Joe across the hall is throwing a rager tonight, blah, blah, blah. Who even is Joe? I really could not tell you.
Parties are no longer my priority. I have made peace with my parents and Jeremy—who is actually really sweet, damn. My priority is Cameron and getting him back. The photos of me have not been circulating anymore, which is a plus, and Brazely hasn’t given me shit since I confronted her. But I still don’t get how the heck she got access to that picture unless they knew each other. It makes my stomach knot up that Ryland recorded the whole thing, and that knot gets even tighter thinking about how many people have access to it. I did nothing, but the picture is the only thing that’s circulating so it doesn’t exactly clear my name.
Anyway, the one person I need to convince is Cameron. I hate being apart from him. It is the worst kind of torture seeing him every day, hot as ever, and not being able to jump into his arms. I take his “break” as a breakup, and people who are broken up do not do that. I have given him the space he’s been craving, so why are we still not talking?
I ponder this as I walk back to my room after my early Friday dinner. Brandy said she couldn’t make it, so it’s just me. Little old lonely Lainey all alone and lonely. I expect Brandy is tired or something. Maybe even doing her homework for once, but when I enter the room, I am greeted by no one.
Brandy failed to mention if she had plans off campus tonight. I assumed we would be having a lazy, cozy night. I’m confused until I notice that her desk is completely cleared. Usually one thing is always there, only leaving when we dip out for a party. A certain little list we created. It’s gone. And if I know anything at all, it is currently stuffed into Brandy’s bra. Another missing item catches my attention. Brandy’s go-to going out bag usually hangs over one of the bed poles, but it’s gone too. She went out by herself.
I call her phone, and it sends me straight to voicemail. Great. Brandy is probably capable of looking after herself, but we do have a deal. The buddy system. Going out by herself is bad enough, but now her only mode of communication is dead. Anxiety washes over me like a cold winter breeze in New York City. It makes my arms get goose bumps. Who did she mention was having a party this week? For the life of me, I can’t think of a name. Did she even tell me about a party this week?
An hour later, I get a text from Brandy’s number, and I let out a sigh of relief.
Brandy
Phone died. I am at 15 Warbey Ave. Please come.
Me
Are you OK?
I wait a few minutes before I accept that I will not be getting a response. That brief relief I felt slips away. That is half an address. I type what I am given into my maps application and find one result. What I find is that Warbey Avenue is in Irvine, California. From here, it’s over an hour drive.
I grab a few items and put them in my shoulder bag, then I jog to Tamara’s room. She answers the door in her comfy clothes and glasses. A paperback book is in her hand.
“Hey, I’m so sorry,” I say, feeling genuinely guilty. She looks like she just settled in, and here I am about to ask her for a giant favor.
“Hey, Lainey, what’s up?”
I fill her in on the deal.
“Warbey Ave.”
“Does that address mean anything to you?” I ask. The anxiety makes my voice crack, good lord.
“Uh, yeah.” She bends the corner of her page and tosses the book across the room. Impressively, it lands on her bed. “Stef. He’s having a kegger tonight.”
My heart plummets to my toes. Why is he still frolicking around free? “Fuck.”
Tamara pockets her phone and ID and slides on a pair of sneakers. “I’m coming with you.”
“That’s why I’m here.”
She gives me a tiny grin, and we both rush to the lobby. The one person I have been dying to see comes at us from the opposite direction. I’m torn between pulling him away to my room and running to Brandy. Tamara and I rush past him.
“Where’s the fire, ladies?”
We stop.
“Stef’s house,” Tamara deadpans.
Cameron’s face grows serious. “Why the hell are you going to his house?”
“Brandy went to his party, alone. She needs my help.”
I push away the desire to run my hands through his soft hair and kiss him. It is definitely not the time for that. Tamara yanks on my arm.
“Wait,” Cameron says.
“What?” Well, that came out more aggressive than intended. “Brandy could be in trouble, and his house is over an hour away, so?—”
“I’m coming with you,” he blurts. He takes a step closer to me, and I can tell he wants to hold me as much as I want to hold him. It’s in his eyes. It’s in the way his hand reaches for mine but pulls back before contact. “If you go, I go.”
We drive up to a flat-roofed mansion with window-covered walls with blaring lights shining through them. If I’m honest, it sounds more like a rager than a kegger. Is there even that big of a difference? Cameron finds a place to park along the road a few houses down.
The closer we get, the more I am able to identify the blaring music playing as Kanye. This particular song makes my skin crawl. I look at Cameron. I know he feels my eyes a moment before he looks down at me. My chest warms when his lips twitch, and his finger grazes my hand. Has he forgiven me? Lord, I hope so.
Stef’s front door is propped open, allowing access to anyone who passes by. Stepping inside it looks like everyone who passed did go in, and in an instant, I am engulfed in alcohol, weed, and anxiety. It is sickening, and all I want is to wear a face mask to protect my nose and my immune system. These people look suspicious. Dudes with hair down to their behinds, girls walking around with their titties out. I have never seen that at a party before. Stef is not throwing a kegger. This is a low-budget strip club. Such a Stef thing to pull.
I dial Brandy and stick a finger in my opposite ear to block the noise. After the second ring, a sleepy Brandy answers.
“Laineyyyy, heyyy, girl, what’s up?” Her voice is tired and dreamy.
“Brandy, where are you? I’m here.”
“Pee at two. I’m peer. What?”
“I am here. Where are you?” I repeat louder.
She giggles. “I wanna sleep.”
Another voice speaks, slightly farther away. “Give it,” the female voice says.
“It’s Lainey,” Brandy shouts. “But she’s drunk. Not making sense.” Says the one slurring her words.
“Give it to me,” the other voice says again.
“But she has to pee,” Brandy whines.
“Brandy, ten-twenty?”
Beside me, Tamara points to a staircase and shrugs. I nod, but still attempt to get my best friend’s attention.
It is the other girl that answers me. “Upstairs. Second door to your right.”
I am slightly perturbed by the voice I hear. It is much clearer. And very bitchy.
“Is she okay?” I ask the voice I identify as Brazely.
“Just get up here!” Brazely says, agitated, and hangs up.
We push our way past a crowd of people to get to the stairs, but I stop abruptly when I see Stef sitting on a keg in a corner. On his lap is a topless girl. His hands are firmly squeezing her breasts. Acid crawls up my throat at the sight.
“Hey,” Cameron says softly. He presses a hand between my shoulder blades and pushes me forward with him. His touch never fails to comfort me. He shouldn’t be so nice to me, ugh.
I’m fine until halfway up the stairs when some mega-high hippie guy asks me to have a threesome with him and his guy friend, Barry.
“Have sex with each other,” I suggest dismissively.
“Nah, nah. I can’t, ya see, ’cause no homo. I’m not a gay.”
“Yeah, okay.” I push past him. I’ll let him find himself. I have more pressing matters.
We reach the second room on our right and barge in. Brazely puts a finger to her lips and points to the TV where some sitcom is playing. On the bed, already knocked out since our phone call, is Brandy in a huge T-shirt and baggy sweatpants. One arm is draped over her forehead and the other thrown on top of Brazely’s legs.
How did we end up here?