Your Biggest Fan

17. ROXANNE

Chapter seventeen

I turn up the stereo until it’s that right level where I can hear the music over the sound of my own voice, then shove my hand into the paper bag sitting in my passenger seat. My fingers pull out my third donut of the day. I was feeling ballsy and in need of some change, so after devouring two strawberry sprinkle delights, I told Henry to throw in a cinnamon apple-filled one.

Totally reckless, I know.

The bowling alley held zero allure for me. I’m not in the mood to be around a bunch of grinning idiots pretending life’s all sunflowers and unicorn farts. And definitely not while watching Stephanie get her flirt on—yes, I love her with my entire heart, but it’s too soon for me. It makes me irrationally jealous in a way that I know isn’t fair. I don’t want to feel jealous, but watching her and Daniel smile at each other seemed to highlight the sad state of my love life.

It’s crossed my mind all day that I need to go get under someone else to feel better. I’m sure I could totally go makeout with someone if I wanted to, if I really wanted to.

(I wouldn’t.)

I think I’ll lick my wounds in private for a little longer, and take my mom’s pumice stone and scrape at every inch of my skin. That way it will get rid of the layer of skin cells Harley’s hands had touched. Then it would be like he never touched me at all.

Of course, home doesn’t offer me comfort either. Going there would mean lying on my bed, staring at the ceiling, surrounded by the polaroids of Harley that are tacked to my photo collage wall. Removing them requires a strength I don’t quite have yet.

So I ditched the bowling alley, told Stephanie I was out of there while I had the chance, and ignored the teachers stumbling out of The Velvet Ostrich as I booked it the four blocks to the school parking lot for my car. I made a quick pit stop at the corner store for my go-to heartbreak combo: the bag of donuts and a cherry Pepsi.

I’ll probably end up ordering a pizza later and eating the whole thing in the backseat of my car, staring at the empty passenger side where Harley used to sit. I’ll take big messy bites while looking at the imprint of his body still visible on the worn fabric. Pieces of stray pepperoni and sticky cheese will end up smeared across my face as I mindlessly gorge my feelings, but I don’t care.

It sounds like a perfect way to spend the night to me.

As I settled into the driver’s seat of my faithful Kevin, who is quite possibly the only man who will never hurt me, I cracked open the soda and put on my perfectly curated heartbreak mixtape. It took me hours to make this, recording off the radio and piecing together what I already owned, praying the DJ’s voice wouldn’t get caught on tape.

I called it “Crying Jams for Chumps Who Got Dumped.”

The taste of cinnamon explodes in my mouth as I roll down the window, diving headfirst into the depths of my own misery. Sue me, but I’m here to feel every damn emotion.

(I Just Died) In Your Arms Tonight plays now, and my fingers grip the wheel as the wind whips my hair, determined to gift me the experience of tasting my hair one strand at a time. I’ve been driving all over town, moving up and down Main Street, moving chorus to chorus, verse to verse, until I feel happy.

An hour ticks by and I never do.

Fucking Harely.

I want to hate him. I want to hate his fucking guts. He dangled that piece of hope in front of me like a juicy steak: “I still want to see where this goes.”

What the hell does that even mean? Why can’t we simply continue as we were, catching up whenever the planets aligned? It’s hard to believe he doesn’t have any spare time to do something like visit me for ten damn minutes.

Yeah… maybe I do hate him a little. That’s good, I think. I don’t know what to think, but I need to stop thinking . But I don’t know what else to think about. Not unless I want to think about Noah’s touch while he showed me how to hold the ball, and actually wanting him to keep teaching me.

It was disgusting. It was wrong! So wrong . But the way he looked at me like I was the only girl in the world weakened my damn defenses.

It’s his vampire hypnosis getting to me.

That didn’t stop my lips from curving into a reluctant smile anyways as he joked with me. As much as I hate him, his humor is entertaining—that I’ve learned. That must be why girls always fall for him, and why my nerve endings overrode my brain and spoke before I could, making me let my guard down to reveal the smile I typically reserve only for my inner circle or when I’m watching Patrick Swayze take his shirt off. At least my brain got back on track just as quickly as his thumbs pulled away.

What was that, anyway? It doesn’t seem like a good idea dwelling on it, because there’s no damn way I’ll allow myself to fall for his shit. I deserve better than swooning over the guy who stole the Battle of the Bands crown from me.

Yeah, think about that .

With a firm nod to myself, I turn the music up even louder, pushing thoughts of Noah far from my mind. It’s like quitting smoking—not that I’ve ever tried—and I need to move along and think about something else. I need to stay focused on my mixtape, not replaying Noah’s hands moving me.

He actually has nice hands. Big hands. Soft hands.

Hands that have this pretty bulging vein that moves up the top of his wrist and spreads out like tree branches to his top knuckles.

I groan. Fuck you, Noah . What I really need is to be pounding out my feelings on my drums.

The car lurches forward as I slam on the brakes in the middle of the street. Oh my god, I could literally be at the garage right now. Noah isn’t there, and he won’t be there.

A big smile hits my face. I need sticks flying and the crash of cymbals.

I crank the wheel and head for the storage unit, excited to find solace among the second faithful companion of my life—my kit. After parking around the side, I reach into the backseat strewn with tapes and fast food wrappers and yank my backpack out. Clutching it tightly, I hop out of the car and creak open the unit’s garage door. The rusty, screeching hinges protesting makes me laugh a little.

That’s the sound my legs made while being with Harley , I think. At least my sense of humor’s still intact. Maybe I’m healing after all.

Stepping inside, I instantly notice her: my beautiful drums sitting right there waiting for me. I plop down onto the stool, the chrome legs wobbling while I run a hand over the scarred surface of the bass drum, tracing all the scratches and scuffs from over the years.

I pry off the piece of hair that I leave on the snare so I know if anyone touches it, and annoyingly, looking at my drums makes me feel… sadder. My fingers trace the wishbone my dad drew with a black marker on the snare’s edge.

He’d once told me, “Since the first time I held you in my arms, you’ve been my little lucky charm. You are my wish come true, my very own wishbone. That’s why I drew you on my drum kit, so every time I play, I feel you with me.”

“Wish you were here today, Dad,” I murmur, my voice cracking as I put my backpack down at my feet. “Could use one of those shotgun on the porch moments where you go kick some ex-boyfriend ass.” A laugh escapes me, but it’s chased by a rogue tear that trickles down my cheek.

It’s fucking pathetic, crying alone in here. For crying so much lately in general.

It’s not just my dad I’m missing. I’d give anything to curl up in my mom’s lap right now, letting her long red nails scratch my scalp while I cry everything out. Back then, it was neighborhood boys stealing my swing set or me gashing my knee on some glass after tripping over the garden hose. Silly things, but she always made me believe everything would be okay.

But it’s me and my drums now, my refuge where I can pound out all my pain and anger into their skins, letting the tension melt off through my fingertips. For now, that will have to be enough.

It seems high time to finally learn the drums for Stargazer anyway—my dad’s song that he destroyed in the best ways possible. Learning it feels like the tribute I need to create to feel close to him again.

I clip the Walkman onto my hip, press play, and the drums burst right into my eardrums. Positioning myself behind my kit, I grip my sticks, their weight always so comforting in my hands, then I crash into the opening beats, channeling my dad’s passion and flair.

In my mind’s eye, I see him grinning from underneath his mustache, big bear arms crossed over his beer belly, wearing some ridiculous t-shirt like ‘BEER! Cheaper Than Gas!’ tucked into his jeans, and unable to sit still while nodding along. My biggest fan.

The corner of my mouth lifts and my insides go warm. But as I get further into the drum solo intro, it proves to be my nemesis.

Really, it kicks my fucking ass.

My sticks slip from my sweaty grip, striking the toms too early or too late, or I whack the wrong one entirely. I’m getting pissed, soda bubbles rising up inside of me and threatening to take me down. I squeeze my eyes shut, my forehead creasing as I flub another cue.

Forcing my exhausted hands to obey, I rewind the tape for the umpteenth time. I’ve lost count, but it’s safe to say I’ve hit the thirty mark by now.

The muscles along my forearm start to burn, and I flex my fingers, wincing as the joint of my thumb throbs angrily. A blister is already forming in the tender web between my thumb and index finger, bad enough that I won’t be able to play for a couple of days.

I need to quit while I’m ahead, and give my hands a break before I do real damage. But I can’t. I have to keep going until my head is as exhausted as my body.

My hands keep moving, playing the same measures over and over until the blister bursts, leaving a slick wetness between my fingers. I grit my teeth through the pain, wiping away the mess on my shorts before gripping the sticks tighter, despite the scream of my burning wrists. A few more tries and I’ll get this solo right. I have to.

Fuck Harley.

I hit the snare.

Fuck Riley.

I pound the tom.

And fuck my mom.

I hit the snare again.

With each retry, the sweat and blood make the drumsticks stick and slip in my grip, but I inch closer to mastering the intro, only to stumble and mess up during the second part. That can inside me is about to blow, and at the end of my rope, I stand up, yanking my headphones down and ready to snap my drumstick across my knee—

“Easy there, rock star.” A warm, amused voice cuts through the air, shattering my rage and making me drop the stick. Probably a better fate for it, anyway.

Noah leans against the open garage door frame, one foot crossed over the other, arms folded against his chest, a little smile shaping his lips in the bright sunlight. He is so terribly beautiful and I hate him.

How unfortunate he’s standing in the sunshine and not melting like a good vampire should.

“What are you doing here?” I bark, eyes flicking between his face and the time on my watch—5:30 PM. “Shouldn’t you be getting ready for a hot date or something?”

“And miss my favorite neighborhood rock girl’s rehearsal? Not a chance.” He eyes the couch like he might make himself at home, but catches my death glare and stays put. “What are you working on?”

“A song,” I reply, hoping he’ll take the hint and go away.

Of course, that’s wishful thinking with Noah. He keeps leaning there, that annoying smirk carved onto his face. He’s not going to let this go until he gets what he wants.

“Keeping secrets, are we? Now I’m really curious.”

I roll my eyes, busying myself with rewinding the cassette. “It’s personal.”

“Alright, no need to get defensive. I was trying to show some friendly interest.” His eyes soften, and I’ll admit, melting some of my anger right then.

He kicks off the wall and strides right up to me, invading my personal space once again like an overeager puppy. As he draws near, his eyes sweep over me, and I reflexively move my arms across my t-shirt. I wish I brought a jacket to cover up, something that wouldn’t draw so much attention to my body.

He bends down and picks up the fallen drumstick at my feet, flipping it between his fingers before offering it to me handle first. “You dropped something.”

“Yeah. Meant to do that.”

He twirls the stick again. “Really? You meant to drop your drumstick?”

“Yes, thank you for stating the obvious.” I snatch it from him. Joke’s on him because chivalry is NOT attractive.

He laughs, either oblivious or immune to my sarcasm, and reaches for my Walkman, his fingers grazing mine still on the rewind button. I nearly jump out of my boots when he takes my hand to examine the split open blister, frowning at the dried blood coating my palm.

“That looks nasty. You should really give your hands a break.”

“I live life on the edge,” I snap back, also telling myself to stop being so jumpy when he drops my hand. He’s just a guy. An annoying guy who happens to unfortunately smell really good up close.

I’m weak for good smells, okay? I’m not making this up to justify my reaction. Any of my friends can vouch that my bedroom is a candle museum.

“Mind if I have a listen?” he asks, tapping at the Walkman.

His dumb earthy scent pours back over me, all homey and some masculine version of a sweet pumpkin. My grip tightens around the drumstick as I force a smile, pulling my headphones from around my neck. “Knock yourself out.”

Our fingers brush again, sending an unwanted thrill up my arm. Being this close to him always makes me nervous in a way I can’t entirely understand.

His grin spreads as he puts on the headphones. I press play, cranking the volume high so he can hear, but I won’t have to talk.

Crossing my arms, I rub my thumb up and down the wood of my stick, hoping he can’t tell my cheeks are warming out of nerves. 7 AM me is really regretting ignoring my alarm and lazily deciding to put my hair up, because there’s no point in trying to hide it when my face is on full display

Can you be normal for a minute? I beg my pounding heart. This is Noah. Annoying-But-Attractive-Wait-No-Just-Annoying-Noah.

My eyes drift over his face as he listens. Annoyingly-attractive-Noah .

His eyebrows shoot up underneath his two dark curls as he pushes the headphones tighter against his ears. Eyes closing, his tongue slowly tugs his top lip behind his teeth in concentration.

Suddenly, his eyes pop open, meeting mine. “Rainbow?” he shouts loudly over the blasting headphones.

I nod. We hold eye contact and my heart beats out annoy-ingly-attrac-tive . I look away first, my nail scratching harder into my drumstick as the pounding creeps up my neck.

“This is a tough one!” he continues to yell.

I nod again, shifting my weight to one foot. “Yeah, I’m trying to get the drum part down but it’s proving to be... challenging.”

Noah pulls the headphones down around his neck. “The solo intro is killer, but once you get past that, the rest flows pretty nicely.”

“I wish,” I grumble. “I can barely make it through the intro without fucking something up.”

His eyes burn down on me, a smirk tucked into the corner of his mouth. “That part’s hard? Or your left hand is harder to control?”

My breath stills and those eyes don’t look away as he brings the headphones back around his ears, bobbing his head to the beat. I must look mad because he yanks the headphones right back down.

“You gotta lead with your left hand for that part, you know?”

“How could you possibly—I mean, yeah, duh, I know that,” I stammer, knowing he hears the lie. “It’s just hard and I can’t... get the timing right.”

How does he even know that? I’ve been busting my ass on that intro for hours, and he's pointing out something so obvious that I completely missed.

The room feels hot and stuffy when he laughs at me, and the sweat collecting on my forehead becomes increasingly noticeable as he leans closer.

“I’m sure it is. Here.” He plucks the headphones off his neck and gently places them back on my head. His fingertips lightly brush my skin as he adjusts the band, tucking back stray hairs so they don’t get caught beneath the orange foam. The breath from his nose hits my eyes, and I go still. He holds me with those baby blues, then gestures between the stool and my drum set, eyebrows raised in a silent request.

I eye the stool, then him. Is he for real? He wants to show me how it’s done?

“You play? Or are you hoping for free lessons after those bowling tips you gave me?”

That crooked smile, always. “I told you, those were free of charge.”

I cross my arms, intrigued but really not wanting to show it. “Be my guest, Ringo. Let’s see what you’ve got.”

But when I try to step around the stool, Noah blocks me, hand raised.

“No, sit.”

“What exactly are you—”

“Sit,” he repeats, slow and dark.

Something in his voice compels me to listen for once. So, I do. I lower myself onto the stool, squinting up at him, suspicious as hell. It’s totally his vampire hypnosis again controlling me, but there’s definitely something afoot here.

He spins me around to face the drums, his hand hot on my shoulder. After a few quiet seconds I start to hear a nails-on-chalkboard screech of metal slowly dragging across concrete, sounding an awful lot like a giant pitchfork.

Great, he’s come to murder me. Time of death: 5:38 PM.

“Hold your sticks,” he commands, and I do. Tightly.

“What are you—” I start to ask, prepared to stab his eye out when I look from over my shoulder.

He slides a stool up behind me and straddles it, spreading his thighs wide until I’m sandwiched between him and the drum set, my ass pressed right up against his jeans. I let out an undignified squeak as he grabs my wrists, going full Patrick Swayze in Ghost mode.

Oh. My. Fucking. God.

Unchained Melody might as well be playing right now.

“Ian taught me a thing or two back in the day. Let me hear you play it right and I’ll help.”

My cheeks flame atomic red, but not from giddiness. As if the bowling alley wasn’t enough. What’s his game? Trying to impress me or torture me? Ian might have shown him a few tricks on the drums, but did he need another elbow to the gut to learn about personal space?

Pitchfork or not, this guy will be the absolute death of me, I swear to God.

I grip the sticks tighter, positioning myself over the drums. “Fine. But only for five minutes.”

He lets go of my wrist to let me press play on my tape, but he leans in close enough so he can catch the music from my headphones. And now, I’m very, very aware that I’m stuck between Noah’s legs, in a compromising position that’s as weird and awkward as I suspected it would be. I want to glance back at his face, to see how he feels about it, but I keep my eyes on the snare between my own thighs.

I toss my ponytail over my shoulder, “accidentally” whipping him in the face, then close my eyes, blocking out his presence.

I take a deep breath, counting myself in. And then, I play.

My hands fly across the drums, and Noah’s eyes are on me, watching my every move. I push it aside, focusing on the beat, the way the sticks feel in my hands. It’s me and my drums, the way it’s always been. The way it should be.

Then I hit a snag, my left hand faltering on the timing. Shit . I grit my teeth, ready to start over, but Noah’s hands are suddenly on mine, guiding me, showing me the way.

“Like this,” he murmurs, his voice muffled against my ear. “Let your left hand lead.”

I do as he says, letting my left hand take control—and it clicks.

Holy shit. He was right.

I start to play through the rest of the intro, nailing it perfectly, a grin spreading across my face. Noah's smile is against my neck, his hands still on mine, guiding me through the motions.

I let him “teach” me. It is as weird as any moment with him, our movements synchronized in the dance of the drums. Only every time he touches my arm or hand to guide me, my blood pounds so loud in my ears that I can barely hear the acoustics.

How am I supposed to function with him leaning against me, his chest a wall of warmth against my shoulders, his hands touching on my forearms? That scent of his invades my head, seeping into me until he’s all I can think about—the fine hairs on his smooth arms, his steady breath on my neck.

Those hands, God, those tree branch veins on the backs of his hands. I hate how my eyes trace them, how they command my attention. It's Noah, Noah, Noah—and fuck, I can't stop recording every detail.

Everything is Noah.

And his guidance is actually helping me get better at the part I’d struggled with all day. I squeeze my eyes shut—until I realize I need my eyes open to play. Then all I can focus on is Noah again—his thighs squeezing against mine, his chest lightly brushing my back. Even his jacket smells good, like spice and woods and boy.

I strike the cymbal too hard, wanting to hold my nose to block out his cologne, but his hands tighten on mine. “Easy, Rainbow. You got this. Don’t think so hard.”

I take a shaky breath and try again, aware of everywhere we connect. It’s confusing how someone can be so annoying yet make my heart race this way. I don’t get this guy at all. It’s a different kind of anger.

Whatever it is, I’m not sure if I’m learning to play the drums anymore or learning something more profound about myself.

I’m too caught up in fingers brushing my skin and deep in my head that I can’t focus anymore and I fumble the second act again. His hands move my arms and fingers when I do mess up, and I try my very fucking best to pay attention to what I’m supposed to be doing this time.

Until his laugh breaks through. It’s a warmer, gentler laugh than I’m used to from him. One that makes me feel good. One that vibrates through my rib cage, shaking my bones and keeps my heart held in place by that sound.

I fuck up the rhythm again.

“Okay, stop,” I whisper, before I realize what I’m saying. I don’t mean for it to sound so soft, like I want to spin around and climb into his lap.

I can’t think straight with him so close, his hands on me—it’s too much. Too confusing. Too intimate.

Noah’s hands pause and withdraw. The loss of contact leaves me cold.

“What’s wrong?”

I scramble for an excuse. “I think that’s enough for today. My hands are shot and this close contact thing isn’t working. I’m still messing up.”

It’s not a total lie. My hands ache and tremble slightly from exertion and whatever just happened. But mostly, I need some space. I need air. I need to get the fuck away from Noah before I do something, like lean back into his chest or let my head fall back onto his shoulder.

With his hands no longer on me, the reality of our position starts to bother me. I glance down at his palms resting on his knees, his thumb stroking his jeans, his breath hitting my bare neck. When I peek back at him, he smiles at me.

Nope. Nope. Nope.

I shove myself away from the drums and out from between his legs. I’m blushing harder than I’ve ever blushed in my entire life, and he keeps on smiling as I turn around to face him, standing up to meet me eye to eye, and looking so very pleased with himself.

Something inside me really snaps.

My hands start to shake and I blink back frustrated tears. Jesus, I’m so sick of crying, and I came here to be left alone.

“I don’t need your help,” I grit out. I want to say more to him, but my voice catches and I can’t.

Noah tilts his head. “What’s up with you?”

My face has to look ridiculous with the way I’m glaring at him. I’m still wearing Noah’s fingerprints like a goddamn brand, but I don’t wipe them off this time.

“I’m not a child. Why can’t you leave me alone for once? You’ve already bothered me enough today. I’ve had a shitty weekend on top of a miserable day, and I wanted this time to myself!”

“Is that my fault?” he interrupts then, his voice cutting in as his brow wrinkles.

“No,” I drawl. “But you’re making it worse by being here right now. Believe it or not, you don’t occupy my every thought like you seem to think.”

He grins with his stupid perfect teeth. “Seems I’m occupying your thoughts right now, with the way you’re snapping at me.”

Oh, he did not just fucking say that.

“Christ, dude—enough! You have got to stop!” I yell, poking my stick toward his face, ready to use his eyeball as a rubber tip. “Stop your stupid smirk and your stupid hands and your stupid everything. Stop touching me. Stop trying to teach me things. Stop flirting and definitely stop being nice to me!”

Noah’s expression quickly changes to confusion as he looks down at the drumstick threateningly pointed at his eye. “Is that a request, or are you demanding those things?”

I whack him with the stick.

“Whoa—ow!” Noah rubs his arm, still looking too fucking amused for his own good. “Easy there, tiger. I was joking around.”

“Well, I’m not joking!” I snap. “I’m not in the mood for your games. Not today. Not ever. So let me spell it out for you since you clearly don’t get it.”

“I’m listening—”

“I’m not done talking,” I cut him off sharply.

“Then by all means, continue—”

“I—” I shoot him a look that could kill, and he holds his hands up. “I’ve had a shitty week, and all I wanted was some peace and quiet to try and learn this song, so it could be my own accomplishment,” I rant, jabbing my drumstick into his chest. “And here you come, strutting in like you own the place and you’re the gift to drumming—which, yeah, I guess you kind of do own this place—but you definitely don’t know everything, and you’re taking this away from me.”

I’m on a roll now, venting days of frustration. “Maybe I didn’t know that the drummer leads with his left hand, but that’s for me to figure out. This is supposed to be my thing, and you just had to take over! So just—stop!”

I pause for a breath, digging my stick deeper into his chest. “In summary: stop with the unsolicited advice, stop invading my personal space, and stop acting like I need you to save me from my own incompetence!”

I’m huffing and puffing as I cross my arms. He blinks, his eyes wide with surprise as he rubs at his shirt, though he also looks kinda impressed by my mini rant. For once, I seem to have rendered him speechless. And it feels great.

“Do you need a hug?” he finally asks, extending his arms out.

“Gag me with a spoon, Noah.” I think I might actually rip my hair out. “Are you even listening to me?”

“Every word. I hear you loud and clear, Roxanne.” He raises both his hands up in a defensive gesture. “I only wanted to help you. I know the song, and I know that playing with your left hand is an important part of his drumming. I’m sorry if you thought I was trying to barge in and be a know-it-all. That wasn’t my goal.”

I roll my eyes so hard I think I pop something. “You majorly sucked at reading the room then. I don’t need your help or your hugs. Just stay out of my bubble.”

Noah studies me for a beat, looking like he wants to say something. In the end, he nods and shoves his hands in his jacket pockets. “You do seem tense today, though. Drummer girl needs her nap.”

“Because of you!” I take a step forward, whacking him in the arm again. “You make me tense, dickhead!”

He seems to bristle at that, face going through several emotions before he looks down at me through his lashes, his jaw tight.

“I might suck at reading the room, but you suck at accepting help when it’s offered,” he shrugs, all irritatingly casual. “Moving forward I won’t touch you, I won’t teach you things, and I’ll stop being... nice?”

“Great.” I let out a long breath, my righteous anger dissipating. “Thank you.”

He pauses, still standing there. Not leaving.

“Anything else you want to get off your chest while you have me trapped here?”

“Nope, you can definitely leave now.”

But he doesn’t. He keeps staring at me for a heartbeat longer.

Finally, he sighs harshly and turns away, dragging the stool back against the wall with his foot under the bar. Then he crosses his arms, turning back to me with that smirk.

“You know, you could use a lesson for your anger issues too.” God, his tone sets my teeth on edge.

“Now I have anger issues for standing up for myself?”

No one’s ever said that to me before or accused me of having a short temper. I always make sure to control my reactions and my outbursts because I have such a debilitating fear of hurting people with my words. That’s why I bottle up every hurt feeling I stitch my lips shut about, hoping it will go away if I never have to bring it up. I don’t want someone to fire back at me—to get upset with me.

I never thought that made me angry. I always thought that made me patient.

“It’s just an observation. Like I said, you seem pretty tightly wound today. It’s also not the first time you’ve gone off on me like this.”

“I’m not angry, I’m—I—” I pause, my lips twisting. Noah’s eyes are back on me now, waiting.

“What?”

What would I say? That I’m not angry, just tired, depressed, stressed, in need of a good... distraction?

“What do you know about anger?” I ask instead, my voice coming out much colder than I meant it to.

I stare at a crack on the floor, trying to ignore the heat that’s rising in my stomach. I don’t want to think about what Noah even sees if he’s looking at my face right now.

“What would you know about anger?” I repeat. “You always seem pretty laid back in school, laughing up a storm. I’ve never seen you upset.”

“You want to know my secret?” he asks, lowering his voice. “I hide my anger well.”

I lift my chin, searching his face. His jaw looks tense as he steps closer.

“Some people say it’s bottled up, and one day, it’ll all come out.” He pauses, glancing up at the lone light dangling in the middle of the room. “Maybe they’re right, I don’t know.”

We stand in such a loaded silence I'm convinced you can hear my donuts digesting.

“It can be dangerous when it’s repressed,” I tell him, wishing I listened to my own advice. This got deep too fast. “It has to find an outlet somehow.”

He nods slowly. “I play a lot of music. It helps.”

I twirl the drumstick in my hand. “Yeah. Me too.”

Noah’s face when he’s angry, what he would say or do... I can’t picture it. He’s always been the chill guy who went to parties and captured everyone’s attention so easily, the one all the girls would wave at in the hallways because he’s always got a smile on his face. What could he know about anger?

“What do you have to be angry about? I mean... why would you ever be angry?”

“Because the world can be cruel sometimes, Roxanne. So can people.” Noah sighs, and when he looks down at me, his expression softens. “But you know that, don’t you?”

I tense, wondering how much he guesses.

“Believe what you want, but it’s not all sunshine and rainbows in my world either,” he says. “Sometimes I wish it was though.”

I blink. Hard. Looking at him now, I try to reconcile the Noah I thought I knew with the one standing in front of me. The guy I've mentally cast as Generic Hot Dude #3 with nothing going on behind those dead eyes. He always seemed like some Ken doll, too perfect to have a deep thought, someone whose biggest worry is touching gum underneath his desk.

Yet now he seems… so human. I guess he’s not a hollow zombie of perfection and has a brain and emotions. Weird .

His eyes fall on the drums, one hell of a small, sad smile curving his lips, and he looks like another average mess without any purpose, one who eats all sorts of frozen, pre-packaged meals and lives on a diet of convenience.

Obviously, what I want to think is a lie. When he has a shitty day, it’s from not getting his dick wet with the flavor of the week. It doesn’t stop me from wondering why he isn’t happy, though. Why doesn’t he think his world is filled with sunshine and rainbows?

He notices my stare and grins, the sadness vanishing like it was never there. “What? Did it ever occur to you that I’m not a one dimensional character like in your little romance novels?”

That tone. Playful. Mocking. It doesn't make me want to crawl into a hole the way it used to, and I let my smile match his. I’ll dial down the attitude for him this one time.

“It’s more fun to imagine you as a character out of those stories than to realize you’re an actual flawed human being,” I admit with a small laugh. “But no, I didn’t.”

“I’m curious, did you think I had absolutely no human feelings?”

“I knew you were a person, obviously. I just thought you felt nothing is all.”

Jury is still out for a vampire theory, though.

My eyes go to his arms crossed against his chest, then to his smile. What is it about a guy smiling that makes you want to melt into a puddle on the floor?

“I feel plenty.” He arches an eyebrow. “What’s my character type then?”

I pretend to think hard, tapping my chin. “Hm... the brooding bad boy who turns out to have a heart of gold?”

He clutches his chest, feigning a mortal wound. “I’m glad to know you have moved me out of the heartless womanizer who ‘cares about nothing but getting some’ category.”

“Don’t put words in my mouth,” I mumble, my body tensing. “I didn’t think you were a complete tool, just that you didn’t really feel things.” I still think he is 50% a tool. “I can admit when I’m wrong, you know. But you’re still an ass.”

My brain yells that I shouldn’t have said that. It’s too late to scold myself now. At least when I look up at the grin plastered across his face, I know I wasn’t entirely off base.

“Never said I wasn’t. You aren’t exactly the sweetest person yourself.”

I open my mouth for a retort, then snap it shut again. He’s not wrong. We’re both flawed human beings with hidden depths, not fictional characters.

“Talking also helps more than blowing up sometimes,” he says gently, his voice softer than I’ve ever heard it. “Offers on the table if you ever want to chat or vent instead of attacking the drums. No pressure, though. You could even punch me in the arm if it helps.”

“I’ll keep that in mind.” And I might take him up on that punching offer.

He chuckles, shaking his head. “For what it’s worth Wishmore, I think you’re doing great. With the drums, I mean. You don’t need my help.”

“I could say the same about your singing, Jackson.”

We lapse into silence again, but it’s not as heavy this time. It’s... comfortable. As if we’ve reached some kind of understanding. Or at least a temporary cease-fire.

Noah jerks his thumb toward the door. “Great. Now that that’s settled, I’ve got some human feelings to attend to.”

“As you should,” I reply, expecting him to leave.

Instead, he claps his hands loudly, kicking his heel up on the stool and resting his forearm against his knee, looking every inch the rebellious bad boy I’ve heard about.

“What?” I ask, narrowing my eyes on him.

“I’m sick of practicing,” he announces dramatically.

“You’ve done zero practicing.”

He grins, unfazed. “Do you want to keep taking your frustrations out on these drums and tear your hand up, or do you wanna have some real fun?”

“Real fun? With you ?” The idea makes the hair on my neck stand up, though not necessarily in a bad way. Talking with Noah was surprisingly more interesting than the drums at the moment.

“Why not? It’s better than beating those drums to death. We both know that in the end, it doesn’t really make you feel better anyway.”

I glance at the sticks in my hands. He has a point. They were only ever a temporary fix, and after the intensity of the last twenty minutes, I wasn’t really feeling them anymore.

Plus, my hand fucking hurts.

“Okay... what the hell does ‘real fun’ mean? That sounds like code for something completely ridiculous.”

“That’s because it is.” Noah smiles in a way that suggests he might mean exactly that. “Is there something wrong with having something ridiculous happen in your life once in a while?”

My fingers touch the soft contours of my necklace, sliding along the smooth edges of the beads, drawing comfort from the shape. Nothing is ever fun—it’s miserable. Life is a thick fog of misery that clings to everything like cigarette smoke in my house. No lightness or fun, just survival. I never got to have moments to feel like a normal teenager. Ever.

“When you put it like that... No, I suppose it would be nice to have something ridiculous happen once in a while.”

“Exactly!” He claps his hands together. “You have a choice to make. Option one: stay here and beat those drums up. Option two: embark on an epic adventure into the great unknown. But that doesn’t change the fact that I know what you want to pick.”

I chew my lip, pretending to mull it over in my head. As if there was ever any question.

I knew my answer the second he said the word ‘fun.’

Noah starts to slowly step past my drum set, calling over his shoulder, “It’s okay if you’re feeling scared about picking real fun... if you’re a chicken.” He spins around and starts walking backwards, flapping his arms and bucking his head like a deranged rooster.

It feels normal for a moment, like we’re friends . What a fucking concept.

I hurriedly take several steps forward while huffing a laugh. “Okay, okay, maybe I am a tiny bit scared of picking ‘real fun.’” I make air quotes with my fingers. “Can I at least know what real fun entails before I make any promises?”

“That’s the point, it’s a mystery.” He stops and leans up against the side of his dirt bike parked in front of the garage. “Why don’t you come find out what it is for yourself?”

A beat.

“I really think you should pick real fun.”

Another beat. Another clucking sound coming from him.

“I’m not a chicken, but I’m not an idiot, so I’m not going anywhere until you tell me where I’m going,” I demand, jutting out a hip and refusing to back down.

He rolls his eyes and scrubs a hand down half of his face. “Fine, fine. Real fun is driving all the way to the lake, late at night, and standing around a giant fire, letting the smoke gently burn your eyes as you watch the stars above. The only noises being the sound of a boombox, and laughter.” His smile drops as he looks up at the sky and sighs deeply. “Oh, and the feeling of a beer in your system feels really nice, too.”

Saying I wasn’t intrigued by his description would be lying. I can smell the wood smoke and feel the heat of the flames, and it warms me with happiness. Which isn’t something I’ve felt much of lately.

My face falls a little as reality sets in. “Wait, you want to go to a party on a Tuesday?”

He gives me a questioning look, then shrugs. “You must be new. There’s been drinking at that lake every night since I was sixteen.”

“What’s the catch? Why do you want me to do this?”

“No catch, no strings attached.”

“You’re saying that you want me... to come with you... to a party?”

“Yeah, I’m saying that I want to go with you.”

My stomach drops at those words and I take in a deep breath to keep my chest from shaking. Noah wants my company. Me, of all people. The cranky loner girl who’s been avoiding him for years.

I scan his face for any sign of deception, any hint that this is all some prank.

All I see is sincerity.

How odd that this guy I barely know wants to take me to a party, when my ex-boyfriend looked sick at the idea. What’s even stranger is that Noah’s not being embarrassed by me made me feel kind of… great.

The swarm in my stomach multiplies. It’s not even butterflies at the thought of him seeking out my company, it’s more like heavy moth wings that I need to throw up.

My palms grow sweaty as his hand lands on my shoulder, like he needs to touch me to get his point across. I stare at him as my sticky fingers grip my drumsticks tighter, not even sure when I’d walked out of the garage and into the sunset. He’s dangerous, and I know it from the way he looks at me.

He keeps his eyes on mine when he tacks on, “I think it would be fun to finally see your freak flag fly.”

In his dreams. This isn’t about my inner freak flag. It’s about his.

Still... a party could be fun. A chance to let loose and forget my problems for a night. And if Harley happens to be there—

Harley .

My stomach flutters thinking I might run into him. He’d been going to these things often, and this could be my movie moment to show him exactly what he’s been missing.

The look on his face when he sees me would be priceless, if I weren’t wearing a t-shirt and shorts. I’m hardly turning heads in this outfit. Instead, I would be plain old me. That scene from earlier in my head that Noah painted for me, standing around the fire.

At least in that scene, I’m not the high-strung girl I’ve become. I’m lighthearted and relaxed again. I want to be that, to rediscover the parts of myself I thought were lost forever. This is a chance to come up for air—or drown me further in the dark. It sounds like if I do or don’t take the risk, then it would keep sinking me down anyways.

Fuck. I’m really doing this, aren’t I?

“Tick-tock Roxanne,” Noah sing-songs. He’s been a little too chill with me, which makes me even more skeptical. Something bad is going to happen. I know it.

“Are you sure you wanna risk that?” I smirk. “Your fortune might come true there.”

“I can dance. There’s nothing to worry about.” He winks and gives me that smoldering stare I’ve seen so many girls swoon over. “And if that does happen, I’m sure you’ll look extra cute as my dance partner.”

My eyes roll of their own accord when he says the word ‘cute.’ “Oh, if they play the Macarena, we are definitely dancing to it. Actually, you know what?” I pause, biting my lip. “I’m probably going to start it.”

His eyes widen slightly as he takes a step back, his tongue darting out of his mouth to run over his lips. A low groan comes out of him as he shakes his head at me.

“You’re cruel. You’re evil and cruel, do you know that?” He lets out an exhale that’s part sigh, part moan, and there's a responding heat in my gut. “I love it.”

Taking a step toward him, I meet his look with one of my own. “You know what else I am?”

Noah’s eyes fall down on me. “Besides my worst nightmare?”

I shove at him. “Not a chicken.”

“Then how 'bout you prove it to me, sunshine.”

He glares at me. I glare back.

He scowls, and I glower right back.

A bird chirps in the distance. Somewhere, a squirrel’s claws scrabble loudly as it scurries across a power line and my eyes start to water, but I refuse to break. Noah’s left eye twitches, but he stands firm. An acorn plops onto the metal roof of a storage unit behind us in a loud PING . And after two more seconds of trading stares, I cave in.

“Okay,” I groan, tossing my sticks inside the garage. “I’ll bite. Let’s go be ridiculous.”

His mouth forms a small O as he looks at me. “Wow... did you say yes?”

“Yes, I said yes.”

“That’s my girl,” he says so easily, holding his elbow out. “We can ride together.”

I cross my arms under my breasts, my mouth twitching up into a smile. “Yeah, I’m not letting you inside Kevin.”

“What the hell is a Kevin?”

“Kevin is my car.”

“You named your car Kevin?” His eyes narrow as he gawks at me. “Why am I not surprised that you named your car after a normal guy like Kevin?”

“Kevin isn’t any normal guy. I call him Kevin because he’s so dependable. He may not be flashy or new, but he gets the job done.” I shrug. “What, you don’t name your objects and form unhealthy attachments?”

“Me? Name things that shouldn’t be named? I would never.” Noah shakes his head, clearing his throat before gesturing grandly toward his bike. “Now, shall we ride together on Josephine?”

I snort. “Josephine? You criticize me for Kevin but your bike has a grandma name?”

“Excuse you, Josephine is a classic, dignified lady,” he argues. “Not that I’d expect you to appreciate her, Miss Kevin.”

“At least Kevin doesn’t make me feel like I’m one wheel slip from sudden death.”

“Josephine is perfectly safe in my capable hands, you chicken.”

“No. No way. There is absolutely no way I’m getting on that thing,” I laugh as I slice my hands through the air.

Noah then waves the helmet in his hands. “Why not? It’s just a bike.”

When I don’t answer fast enough, he starts clucking like a chicken again, the prick.

“Why can’t I follow you?” I ask as he takes a step toward me, holding his hands out for me to climb onto his bike.

“Because you might make a run for it. Now hop on Josephine already.”

He isn’t wrong. I’d probably have another gas station spray fiasco and bolt home without a second thought.

“Ugh, fine! Don’t I need to, like, go home and change first or something?”

“What do you think people wear to parties? Monocles and top hats?” He nudges me, gesturing for me to take the helmet with a pout on his face.

I keep my arms rooted in place, stalling. “Oh, definitely tuxedos. Lots of bow ties and ball gowns.”

“It’s a high school rager, not a cotillion.”

I stroke my chin pensively. “Are you sure? I assumed there’d be an underground club in the basement where you gamble pocket watches.”

“You’ve never been to a party before, have you?”

“This is literally the first time.”

He stares at me, his eyes lingering in places I don’t want them lingering before he finally waves a hand. “Nah, you look good. Don’t stress about it.”

I shoot daggers at him.

“Oh, sorry. You look like shit.”

“ Excuse me ?”

“What? You told me not to be nice. In fact, put your own helmet on.”

He shoves the helmet into my crossed arms, and I sigh as I nervously take it from him and jam it on my head, fastening the strap beneath my chin with shaky fingers. Noah blinks at me when I throw my hands up in a ‘ well, here the fuck we are ’ pose, looking like he’s trying not to laugh.

“Safety first.” He swings his leg over the bike and pats the seat behind him. “Now get your ass on Josephine before I change my mind.”

I flip him off, but I climb on behind him anyway. God, my heart is racing faster than the engine, but there’s no key to turn it off.

“No bow ties or watch clubs better be waiting,” I mutter. I’m really doing this. I’m really going to a party with Noah Jackson. On a motorcycle named Josephine.

I swallow around a rapidly forming lump in my throat when I start to lean around, searching for handles, or straps, but I find nothing.

“Um, what exactly am I supposed to hold on to?” Dirt bikes are as foreign to me as Noah's sudden chivalry.

“That’s the fun part.” My breath rushes out of me as Noah glances back, his face untouched even as his eyes darken. “Me.”

He revs the engine, the vibrations shooting straight up my spine forcing me to clench my thighs against him. Holy shit, this is intense. And we haven’t even moved yet.

“Hold on tight,” he orders as the engine growls between my legs. “And if you feel like you’re going to fall off, squeeze me harder. Don't be shy.”

We swerve off the road and onto some top-secret pathway through the field leading up to the lake, where we start passing a cluster of vehicles, weaving between the bald cypress and white oak trees. When the flicker of the bonfire finally comes into view between the trees, I sigh audibly with relief and Noah’s back rattles with laughter at my expense. As soon as he hits the brakes, I scramble off the rumbling bike, yanking off the helmet and wanting to kiss the ground a beautiful hello because I didn’t think I was going to survive a second longer on that thing.

My hair tumbles out in tangled waves, falling out of my scrunchie and windswept from the ride. I toss Noah back his helmet as I take in the scene: groups of people chatting and laughing around a massive fire near the lake’s edge, red solo cups littering the ground, and at least five different coolers scattered around the area.

The bonfire is at least seven feet tall, and roars when some idiot throws their drink at it, people laughing as orange flames lick up towards the night sky, sending dancing shadows across the trees and their faces.

Scoping out the popular kids lounging on logs or thick tree stumps around the fire, bags of pills trading hands, couples openly groping each other under the trees, I start to envy their ease. These aren’t the low-key bedroom hangouts I’m used to. My legs are starting to turn into overcooked pasta, and my fingers won’t stop raking through my hair, then the smell of wood smoke mixed with cucumber melon and Calvin Klein hits me.

Yep. This is definitely a rich kid zone.

I can barely make out the gentle lapping of the lake water along the shore over the Beastie Boys blasting from a boombox propped up against a log. Glad to know Boombox Mike and his trench coat mafia claimed their DJ booth here.

I tuck my hands into my pockets, feeling even more out of place than I already am. This was the legendary party scene Stephanie and I had been so ready to experience? What a letdown. I was expecting more Footloose and less... whatever the hell this is.

I scan the area again, hoping I’m missing something here. At any moment, everyone will spring up with a dance number and start doing handstands on a giant beer keg.

None of that happens. Instead, the boombox starts to play Fight For Your Right To Party , which is even weirder considering the song has been banned in Bellpond after it caused a riot at homecoming last year.

Well, it didn’t actually cause a riot, but it created enough stir that the Mayor thought shouting out “vulgar” lyrics was inciting one. At least Stephanie will bail me out if I get booked for civil disobedience at my first high school party.

Noah kills the engine and props up the bike on its kickstand. I try to smooth down my shorts and adjust my shirt into them, wishing I had worn something cuter, something that didn’t make me feel so small. I leave my scrunchie wrapped around my wrist and run my fingers through my hair again, combing out the leftover tangles before following Noah’s footsteps down a small trail through the trees and toward the party.

As the music gets louder, my nerves about coming here really start to come in hot. I’m about to put myself into the deep end of the social pool, and I don’t even know how to fucking swim.

“Um, Noah?” I blurt out, stopping in my tracks. He pauses and turns around to face me. “Would you mind maybe... not leaving me alone tonight? I know it’s lame and probably social suicide for you to be stuck with me, but I’ve never been to a party like this before. This is a lot more than I’m used to.”

He tilts his head and licks his lips. “You want me to be a guard dog tonight? Keep you close and all safe and sound?”

My cheeks burn. Why did I say anything?

“Yeah, kinda.” I look down, my nerves turning me into some helpless baby fawn that made a stupid request. “I don’t want to be the one standing around by myself, watching everyone else have fun.”

He takes a slow step toward me while sliding his hands in his pockets, and I instantly tense up, taking a step back in response. A smile creeps up to the edges of his mouth.

“I’m giving you shit, Wishmore. Don’t worry, I wasn’t planning on leaving you.” He steps closer and offers out his elbow in that same gentlemanly fashion as earlier. “Shall we?”

This time, I hook my arm through his and follow as he pulls me along. The muscles in my shoulders calm down almost immediately. His nonchalance is exactly what I need right now, but my heart is still beating faster than ever before. Is this normal? I’ve never been so nervous and excited at once.

Noah gives my forearm a slight pat and whispers one word, one I feel on my cheek. “Relax. I got you.”

I draw in a deep breath and nod, staring at the pine needles on the ground as we step into the firelight. Ignoring all of the paused conversations and heads turning to see who’s showing up now, I focus on putting one boot in front of the other until Noah stops us in front of a red cooler plastered with band stickers.

The nervous energy in my stomach continues to swirl like a fucking hurricane, and I’m resisting the temptation to suck on my necklace until there’s no silver left. I lift my chin and scan the crowd, looking for any sign of Harley.

Go figure that he’s not here. There’s no reason he’d show up to this, especially if he barely has time for me anymore, let alone high school parties.

I ignore the warm pinch behind my eyes.

Noah, per usual, reads into my unease. He pats my arm again before rummaging through the bottles and cans stuffed under the ice. Then he presses a cold glass bottle into my palm, some strawberry daiquiri flavored wine cooler.

“Here, this should help take the edge off,” he says, cracking open a can of beer for himself. I manage a shy, tense smile and twist the top off the bottle. I’ve never tried one of these before, but it beats whatever piss water is in his can.

“Thanks.” I take a big swallow, the fruity bubbles going down like little firecrackers, already starting to warm my chest.

I glance around the towering flames, stomach still full of those nervous butterflies, though maybe now with tiny drunk pilots at the controls. Still no sign of Harley’s blonde hair in the crowd.

My face goes prickly with a blush as I take another gulp, the buzz hitting me fast on account of my dinner only being three donuts. The crackles and pops of fire make everything glow around the edges, pulsing in time with the music, and the air starts to feel lighter and warmer when I sneak a peek at Noah.

He looks relaxed, taking lazy swigs of his beer as the firelight darkens his face, yet still keeps him as soft as a harmless kitten. Even his eyes look alive, reminiscent of the sun sparkling off ocean water.

This is totally his element.

“Roxy!”

I spin around at the sound of my name to see Angela walking over, stepping right out of the pages of 16 Magazine’s pinup section.

She’s wearing this slinky brown and white striped off-the-shoulder top that contrasts perfectly with her olive skin. Her wrists jangle under layers of gold bangles and hoops dangle from her ears as she pulls me into a big hug. She looks so glamorous, it hurts.

Angela gives me a wide, pearlescent smile, totally unbothered by our mismatched styles, which makes me love her even more. “I’m so happy you’re here!”

“Yeah, I am too, this one practically kidnapped me,” I mumble somewhat unintelligibly, gesturing to Noah with my bottle. God, I wish I wasn’t still so fucking awkward and shy. Even at 18, I seem to be a complete failure at adult interaction.

Noah shoots me a look. “Oh please, you were camped outside my garage, begging me to take you.”

“In an alternate universe, maybe,” I retort, rolling my eyes. Angela laughs at our banter, putting me further at ease.

“So fun! You never come to these things, but I’m glad you’re here.”

“Just doing my civic duty.” I look up at Noah and smirk, this time with some actual confidence behind it. Thanks to the strawberry sweet wine.

“And you”—Angela turns to Noah with a wag of her finger—“you better be nice to her. No corrupting my dear Roxanne.”

“I wouldn’t dream of it.” My cheeks go prickly again as his eyes drop down to meet mine instead of hers. “If I have had any sort of influence on her so far, I would say I’ve been a rather positive one.”

He sips at his beer without taking his eyes off me, his throat working as he swallows, the chain around his neck glinting in the firelight. I don’t want to say it’s distracting, but... you know what, it’s definitely distracting.

I’m starting to wonder why he doesn’t have a girlfriend at a party like this, or why he isn’t trying to take his pick of the night and have me ‘watch and learn.’ Not that I care who Noah spends his time with , I quickly remind myself, but the guys that I overhear in class who go to these things would be all over a girl already... or at least girls like Angela, who are super hot and well endowed.

Wait, did I really just think that?

Arms snake around my shoulders from behind, and I turn to see Trinity draping herself over me, resting her head on my shoulder with a giggle.

“Roxy! We’re playing Power Hour,” she slurs, releasing me and shoving a can of beer into my free hand. “Come on, you have to play with us!”

“Power hour?”

“You take a swig every 60 seconds for 60 minutes!” she exclaims with a hiccup. “Essentially you’re taking a shot every minute for an hour straight. Last one standing wins!”

“An hour?” I look inside the full beer car, then give it a one-eyed frown. “That sounds like a lot of alcohol.”

“Don’t be lame. It’ll be so much fun!”

“Lame? We can’t have any more of that around here.” Noah drapes his arm around my shoulder, his fingers brushing my collarbone. “Are you going to let her call you lame again?”

Without waiting for my answer, Trinity darts off to join a group of kids passing a bottle around. I’m not sure what it is—the alcohol, the fire, the darkness of the woods... or the smile on Noah’s face, the same smile that always seems to convince me to do things I don’t necessarily want to do.

I finish my wine cooler and set the empty bottle down.

“Okay, I’m in for Power Hour,” I say, holding my hand out. His fingers wrap around mine, squeezing briefly before letting go.

“That’s my girl.” He crushes his empty can and bends down to grab another from the cooler. I glance down at the full beer in my hand and back to Trinity, who has now tossed herself into a circle of people’s laps. Angela follows my gaze and gives me a tiny smile.

“Yeah, she’s a lightweight. Don’t worry though, I’m her driver tonight.”

I nod back, relieved that someone’s looking out for her. The three of us watch as Trinity tries to chug from a bottle, half of it dribbling down her chin while the others cheer her on.

Angela sighs and shakes her head. “I should probably go rein her in before she starts streaking or something. You guys have fun!”

“Seems like you didn’t need me after all,” Noah muses from my left as we watch Angela dash over to the circle and lead her stumbling friend away from the fire. Guess Trinity isn’t all volleyball and study groups.

It takes a second for me to register how close I’ve been standing to him. I’ve pretty much been clinging to his side like a fucking barnacle since we got here. My face burns up from the warmth of the fire once I take a half-step forward, the alcohol not helping at all with that.

I grip my second emotional support drink tighter as I watch Noah open his new one.

“Do you want to make a bet?” I ask, looking at him over the rim of the can as I sniff it.

“ONE MINUTE!” Trinity yells from across the clearing, and we both take a sip

“A bet? On what?”

I wash down the rest of my nerves with an even bigger swig when Trinity calls out again. “On whether or not I can drink more than you in Power Hour. But I have one condition.”

“And what is your condition? I’ll be there to hold your hair back later?”

I press the cold can against my neck to stop it from throbbing from how hot I’m beginning to feel. “That you stay with me the entire hour. You dragged me here, so you have to help me survive this thing and not take advantage of the fact that I’ll be a poor, innocent wasted girl.”

His smile widens. “I already told you I wouldn’t leave your side tonight. What do I get if I win this bet?”

“ONE MINUTE!” Trinity yells again.

“Winner’s choice. If I win...” I take a swig. “I want dibs on the garage whenever we don’t have practice.”

“Deal.” He extends his hand, and I shake it firmly. “You better be prepared to be a guest in my garage, because you have made a terrible mistake, sunshine.”

Rolling my eyes, I take another sip of beer. It still tastes like ass.

“Don’t come crying to me when you can’t handle yourself,” I taunt, my cheeks starting to burn again.

“You really think that I can’t hold my alcohol better than you?” He takes a long pull from his can, then nods down to mine, which is already half-empty. “Or are you nervous that you’re getting drunker than you thought you would, Miss Party Animal?”

“One minute!”

“I’m fine,” I insist, finishing the rest of my beer and tossing the empty can aside. “Are you worried that you’re losing?”

He shakes his head, finishing his second can and dropping it to the ground next to mine. “I’m really not worried,” he says dryly while I reach for another beer. “In fact, I haven’t really started trying yet.”

I bristle at the challenge. “Good! Because I need another!” I drain my beer and motion for him to pass me another, a bit wobbly on my feet at this point. “See? Totally in control.”

There’s a millisecond where there’s real concern behind his teasing now. His eyes trail down to the cooler, then back up to meet mine.

“Slow down,” he tells me, his hand coming to rest on my arm. “That’s three cans in fifteen minutes. You’re going to feel it all at once.”

“I’m fine!” I insist again, even as the world starts to tilt slightly. “I’m just getting warmed up. I know what I’m doing.”

“You know what you’re doing? The only things I know that you seem to do are party and argue.”

I scowl at him from over the rim of my new can, swaying as I chug all of my beer to spite him. And maybe to prove a point. But mostly spite.

“I’m gonna be fine. You just want me to give up already so you can win,” I shoot back, grabbing another beer and popping the tab.

“If I want to win, I’ll win,” he says, that same dangerous look sparkling in his eye from last Saturday when he catches my arm. “I have no problem letting you get wasted and making you regret this little bet when you wake up tomorrow. However I do have a problem with you making yourself sick to prove a point. You’re going to feel like hell if you keep drinking at this pace. It’s a sip every 60 seconds, not chugging every 10.”

My frown glares at him. He’s right. I’m a few drinks short from my eyeballs kissing the dirt, and I’m going to feel like absolute shit tomorrow if I keep going like this. Besides, I have nothing to prove to him. I don’t actually want to beat him—I kind of want to lose.

Then I see the look of smug triumph on his face, because he can tell I’m about to listen to him. And as much as I want to listen, I need to win now.

“ONE MINUTE!”

I take another swig, the beer sloshing over my chin. I wipe my mouth with the back of my hand. “I’m not a quitter, Jackson. I’m not going to lose to you.”

He sighs, running a hand through his hair. “Stubborn ass.”

“Condescending prick says what?”

He furrows his brow. “What?”

I laugh, shaking my head. “Too easy. You walked right into that one.”

“God, you’re a pain in the ass,” he says, but there’s something like affection in his voice.

“Your face is a pain in the ass.” I crack open my fifth beer. “What do you want if you win, anyway?”

His eyes are all warm and gooey now, reminding me of melted blue M&Ms. Gross. But also... not?

“If I win?” Those blues scan me from head to toe, and he closes the distance between us until I have to arch my neck back to look at him. I pray to whatever God is listening that Noah has reached his full height, or else my neck is going to be constantly sore having to look up at him.

“I’ve got a few things in mind. The look of defeat on your face, for starters.”

“A few things in mind?” I repeat, staring up at him with more curiosity than my alcohol-fueled brain intended. And I have no problem stretching up closer to get a better look at him from my lowered view.

“A few. I’m not going to tell you what they are.”

“Why not?” The beers continue their slow descent into my bloodstream, leaving me unable to get my eyes off of his blues gleaming in the dark in order to take my next sip. “You’re not gonna let me know until after I win, aren’t you?”

“I like the look on your face when you’re confused,” he laughs, sobering me up a notch. “Yes, you’re not going to know what it is.” He pauses, his eyes trailing down to my neck. “But you’ll definitely know when you’ve lost.”

I wonder why he’s always looking at my neck. And how he always seems to know exactly where to look to make my muscles tighten.

NOAH JACKSON IS A VAMPIRE TALLY BOARD:

II

The look gets interrupted by Trinity’s shrill shouts and I groan. Wow, yeah, I hate this game . Robotically, I bring the beer to my mouth.

The taste barely registers anymore as I spot a flash of bright red hair past Noah’s shoulder. Squinting through the haze of smoke and shadows, my eyebrows furl together, and I lean around him to get a better look.

What I see forces me to grip onto his arm for support.

Riley’s here, her fiery hair unmistakable, lip-locked with some guy, their bodies melded together against a tree as his hands tug at the shoulder of her top. Trinity shouts again as they kiss, the guy’s hands roaming over her body while she straddles his knee, one of his hands making its way into her back pocket.

The sight actually makes me jealous?

What I wouldn’t give to be touched like that.

I keep watching, and my heart boils over and shatters like glass as I really take in the scene before me. Harley has his hands tangled in her red locks, her cherry-stained lips working down his throat, his shirt half unbuttoned, showing off Riley’s handiwork. Her red nails rake over his chest before grabbing his belt loops to yank his hips against hers.

There’s… No . This cannot be happening right now.

There’s no fucking way.

“Roxanne, drink,” Noah nudges me, noticing my distraction.

I try to do what he says. Try to look away, but it’s like a car crash, except it’s anger and humiliation colliding through me in blistering waves as I grip tighter onto Noah’s arm. My eyes are burning at the corners, and the cold, soothing relief from taking another sip of beer barely has a fair chance to unfold within the confines of my body before my brain fires off a crippling ache again.

How could he do this to me? All the times he’s blown me off in recent weeks, using homework or his friends as excuses, but really, he’s probably been sneaking around with her behind my back the entire fucking time.

The smoke thickens when someone throws their drink into the fire again, but it fails to obscure their grinding bodies. It only makes them brighter.

My eyes tear away from the painful sight, my throat tightening. I chug down my beer, barely tasting it in my haste, trying to drown out the image burned into my mind.

Harley hasn’t been too busy for me—he’s replaced me altogether.

“One minute!” Trinity calls again. I follow the rules, letting the alcohol join the acid burning up my throat while avoiding Noah’s now concerned look. The beer sloshes inside me, but it’s not doing anything to erase the heartbreak.

I open my throat and keep swallowing down the beer, my eyes back to Harley and Riley’s sickening display. It's fucking torture—my heart eaten away from the inside by the hammers of Hades. Every time their heads angle so their mouths can better fit each other’s tongues, it sparks a riot of those demonic creatures to unleashes through my guts.

I’m fighting to appear unaffected, but my can cracks as Harley’s hand slides lower to cup Riley’s ass.

“I’m surprised you can see anything through those eyebrows,” Noah laughs in front of me.

All that beer is about to come right back up. Fuck. Noah was right, I shouldn’t have chugged all those drinks so fast. Why did he always tend to be right lately?

Riley pulls back slightly, her scarlet lipstick smeared all over Harley’s thin lips.

Hot blood vibrates inside my veins when I see him give her a tender smile—one I’ve never been on the receiving end of— before drawing her close again by the small of her back, eyes drifting shut.

They pop open once their lips meet, sliding right through the fire’s haze and heading directly for me. Shit . He’s going to see me standing here like a fucking idiot staring. What would I even do if he did?

My first instinct is to bolt into the woods or throw myself into the bonfire.

I blink hard, trying to get my mind back online. The world starts to spin as I panic, and in an act of pure desperation, I quickly turn to Noah as the fire burns my eyes, watching his lips move as he mouths something to me. All I can hear is Kiss Me Deadly blasting from BoomBox Mike’s speaker now.

And then I do what anybody might do in this situation. But I don’t care. I need to feel something besides the pit inside me.

Even if it’s a spectacularly bad idea. It’s too late because I already told myself: fuck it.