7 Cassius
Don’t Ruin Her Fun
By the time we actually leave her dorm, I’ve spent an hour sitting on her bed trying not to spontaneously combust while she did the whole hair-makeup-perfume-shoes routine.
And I mean the whole routine.
Curling iron. Sprayed that vanilla perfume that smells way better than it has any right to. At one point she did a tiny spin in front of the mirror just to check her skirt and almost flashed me. I saw more of her thigh than is safe for my blood pressure.
Somewhere between all of that, my brain just tapped out. Swapped anger for something worse. Something that’s way too aware of the fact that every other guy at this party is about to see what I’ve just seen.
Now we’re in my car, and she’s next to me in that black sheer long-sleeve, black lace bralette, black mini skirt, fishnets, and Doc Martens with little stars on the sides.
If I believed in God, I’d assume this was a test.
“Okay, we need to establish a rule,” Zae says, propping her boots up on my dash, glittery stars catching the streetlights as I pull out of the lot.
I drag my eyes off her legs and back to the road. “You mean besides ‘don’t scuff my dashboard’?”
She taps her heel against the plastic just to be a menace. “Rule one,” she continues, faking a serious voice. “If I accidentally fall in love with a frat boy tonight, you’re legally obligated to throw me into traffic.”
“Relax,” I mutter, turning onto the main road. “You’re not falling for anybody who uses a Natty Light pyramid as interior decor.”
“You say that now.” She messes with one of her bracelets as she speaks. “But wait till one of them quotes a half-wrong movie line at me. I’ll be gone.”
I glance over. The eyeliner, the skirt, the sheer shirt—it’s all party. But up close, I can see the shadows under her eyes, the faint tightness around her mouth. The way her leg is bouncing even though she’s pretending to be chill.
“Last chance to bail.” My fingers tighten on the wheel, hoping she changes her mind and calls all this off. “We can go back, order pizza, and watch a terrible horror movie. You can make fun of the effects while I mock your screaming.”
She huffs out something that’s almost a laugh. “You hate horror.”
“Which is why it would be a sacrifice,” I point out. “Martyr shit. I’d suffer for you.”
She smiles, but it doesn’t quite reach her eyes. “Tempting. But I need this.”
“Need what?” I ask, even though I know.
“A distraction. Loud music, bad decisions, cheap beer. You know. The college experience. I’ll be fine.”
Her voice gets breezy on that last part. Too automatic for my own comfort.
I grit my teeth, then consciously unclench my jaw. “You don’t have to prove you’re fine by grinding on drunk strangers.”
“You say that like you’ve seen the future,” she deadpans, picking at her fishnets. “Maybe I’m going to stand in the corner and judge everyone.”
“That’s usually my job.”
“Oh, right.” She flicks me a look, eyes shimmering with a hint of real humor. “We can tag-team it. You judge their outfits, I judge their life choices.”
“Deal.” It’s a weak joke, but I take the scrap of her sounding like herself.
We fall into a quiet that isn’t comfortable exactly but isn’t terrible either, until her phone buzzes.
She checks it, scrolling her thumb over the screen.
The blue lights up her face, and for a second, I get a flash of what she must look like alone in her room at night when she’s trying to distract herself from the depression.
I push the thought away before it can sink its claws in.
Sigma Tu’s house is already thumping by the time we park half a block down. Music bleeds out of the open windows, bass rattling the siding. People spill onto the lawn—red cups in hand, voices raised, someone already trying to do a keg stand while their friends scream encouragement.
Zae inhales deeply like she’s trying to remind herself why she ever thought this was a good idea.
I’m wondering the same.
“There it is.” She gestures toward the house. “The smell of cheap beer and bad decisions. Just what the therapist ordered.”
“Pretty sure your therapist did not order that.” I shake my head, locking the car.
She links her arm through mine as we walk. “Eh. Tomato, tomahto.”
Her fingers curl around my bicep, warm even through the fabric of my hoodie. Half of my brain is screaming at me to enjoy it. The other half is already bracing for when she lets go.
We weave through the bodies on the lawn and step into the house. The smells are assaulting: sweat, booze, some kind of fruity vape cloud. They’ve strung LED strips that pulse along the ceiling, casting everything in red and blue.
Zae immediately gets bumped by a girl trying to get through the doorway. “Sorry!” the girl shouts over the music.
“You’re good!” Zae shouts back, flashing a quick smile.
She does that a lot—little smiles, small apologies, quick jokes.
People around us laugh and move on. We push deeper into the living room.
The makeshift dance floor is in the center, coffee table shoved against the wall, couch shoved to the side.
Bodies packed tight. Some are just dancing. Others are… not subtle.
Christ.
“Okay,” Zae says, leaning up to my ear so I can hear her. “Drink time. Think they’ll care that we’re underage?”
“Doubt they’ll even notice,” I shoot back, already eyeing the area where drinks are being slung.
I notice people have stamps on their hands, and I very quickly find the ink pad they’re using and smear our hands with the shit so it looks like the stamp just got rubbed off.
“Now they really won’t notice.” I smirk at her, raising my brows in challenge.
She smiles back, a flash of her genuine self that eases me more than I care to admit.
We elbow our way to the kitchen. They note her smudged ‘stamp’ suspiciously but hand her a drink anyway. I pass because I don’t need to add any fuel to the fire that’s still simmering in me.
She takes a sip, wrinkling her nose up. “Mmm. Tastes like shit.”
“Don’t drink it, then.”
She takes another sip. “Can’t. I’ve committed now.”
I roll my eyes, but a smile tugs at my mouth. It’s ridiculous how much lighter I feel when she’s around, just being herself.
She finishes half the cup and then sets it aside. “Okay. I’m going in.”
“In where?” I ask, even though I already see where her gaze is heading—the dance floor.
She grins at me. “Come dance with me?”
“Nope,” I answer instantly.
“Cassius.”
“I don’t dance,” I tell her, dead serious. “I violate the air. You don’t want to see that.”
She actually laughs, to which my mouth decides to betray me and curve enough for her to notice.
“I absolutely want to see that.”
“Too bad.” I jerk my chin toward the wall. “I’ll be over there, grumpy and judgmental.”
She groans dramatically. “You’re so boring.”
“Correct.”
She pokes my chest, eyes narrowing just a little. “Fine. Be lame. I’ll dance with people who actually appreciate my moves.”
The way she says it—light, teasing—would sound normal to anyone else. But I hear the edge, the need to prove she’s fine under it all.
“Zae,” I start.
She’s already backing away, lifting her hand in a sarcastic salute. “Relax, Razor Wire. I’ll be five feet away and not dead. You can unclench those asscheeks.”
I want to grab her wrist and keep her right here next to me. I want to tell her she doesn’t have to perform for me. Instead, I shove my hands in my pockets and nod toward the crowd. “Go terrorize their ankles.”
She throws a real grin at me this time, then turns and disappears into the bodies.
I move to the wall near the living room archway where I can see both the dance floor and the front door. I lean back, crossing my arms, eyes automatically tracking her.
She starts out just dancing in the mass—bouncing to the beat of Ferrari by James Hype & Miggy Dela Rosa, hair swinging, skirt flirting with scandal every time she moves. She laughs when someone bumps her, throwing her head back, looking freer than she has since we got back to campus.
It should make me happy.
It does. But it also twists something in my chest so hard it almost hurts.
Don’t be that guy.
Don’t ruin her night.
She deserves fun.
I repeat it in my head like a fucked-up mantra.
She catches my eyes once from across the room and wiggles her fingers at me, like, see? Completely alive. Were you worried or something, loser? I roll my eyes and flip her off, which makes her grin wider and turn away again.
She’s having fun. I’m learning to ease up. But then a guy shows up and slides in behind her like he thinks he’s going to score—average frat guy build, backward cap, tank top with his letters, hands already hovering near her waist, waiting for an opening.
I feel my shoulders tense.
He starts by dancing near her, not touching but testing the waters. She glances back, smiles—polite, not flirty—but doesn’t move away.
She’s just being nice. She’s allowed to dance with whoever the fuck she wants. You’re not her keeper.
When the beat drops and the crowd gets excited, he takes that as his cue to step closer, hands finding her hips.
To my surprise, she doesn’t shove him off.
She lets herself be pulled back against him.
Her back hits his chest. His mouth drops near her ear to say something. I can’t hear it, but she laughs.
My jaw clenches so hard it aches.
Don’t ruin her night.
I remind myself.
She deserves fun.
I watch as his hands slide down, fingers spreading over the curve of her hips. Her skirt rides up half an inch on her thighs, letting her fishnets catch the colored lights.
I can’t look away.
He rocks his hips forward, guiding her into his rhythm, and suddenly she’s grinding back against his groin, whether on purpose or because the crowd leaves her no choice. Either way, I don’t fucking like it.
Heat spikes under my skin, hot and ugly as my heart starts pounding like I’ve been sprinting even though I haven’t moved. I watch as she throws her head back onto his shoulder, laughing at something he says again, flirty.