Your Biggest Fan

27. ROXANNE

Chapter twenty-seven

“Fuck!” I hiss, stabbing myself in the eye for the third time with the eyeliner pencil. The Dark Mother Elvira would be so disappointed. I blink away the stinging tears, rushing to finish up my makeup while sinking into the beanbag chair.

Nothing says 'sexy vampire queen' quite like crying off all your makeup before you even leave the house.

I smack my lips together to spread the dark red lipstick that makes me look like a clown, and pull the pencil away to peer into Stephanie’s Hello Kitty compact mirror, tilting my head this way and that to make sure my lines are even.

“How’s it look?” I ask her and Tyler, who are both too busy slumped on the bed, completely absorbed in an episode of Tales From the Crypt . It’s the episode where a guy dressed as Santa Clause escapes a mental hospital.

“What?” Steph mumbles, barely twisting her head over her shoulder.

“My face. Does it scream Elvira?”

“Oh. Yeah, total mistress of the dark. It’s perfect.” She shoos me with an absent wave of her hand before her eyes dart back to the screen.

Tyler doesn’t even look away from the TV or his bag of Reese’s Pieces.

Whatever . I guess I have no choice but to take her word for it. I can agree that the woman sticking her husband with a fire poker is way more entertaining.

I heave myself out of Steph's zebra-print bean bag, stumbling as my brain recalibrates to the vertical world. The floor-length mirror on the back of her closet looms before me, a portal to either validation or crushing disappointment. I take a deep breath, straighten my spine while tugging the fabric into place, and face my reflection.

Holy. Shit.

The woman staring back at me is... not me. She's dangerous. The kind of creature who'd lure you into a dark alley and leave you drained of more than just blood. The black dress falls to my ankles, though barely thanks to the kitchen scissors I used to slice high slits up both legs, flashes of pale thigh with every little movement. My arms are covered by long, tight sleeves, but the plunging neckline shows off the Grand Canyon cleavage of my boobs in all their glory.

I twist, checking out the back view, and my ass looks one deep breath away from Hulking out of this dress. It’s hugging every curve from shoulders to ankles, each breath continuing to question the structural integrity of this fabric. It’s…

Bold. Sexy. Vampy .

This isn’t me, but tonight, it will be. Beauty is pain, I suppose, especially when you want to feel hot for once. A few shots and I might forget how it feels on me.

I aggressively rake my fingers through my pin-straight hair, the strands catching between my long nails. After a final spritz of perfume that smells like the graves of sexy vampires, I smirk at myself in the mirror, quickly swiping at the corner of my mouth to ensure my lipstain is even when there’s a sharp rap on the front door.

“Shit, he’s here already,” I rush out as I turn around to face my friends. Steph and Tyler finally tear their eyes away from the TV, and when they both turn, they perk up.

“Oh my god. You look like a hot goth mommy,” Stephanie squeals, and my gut starts twisting into knots.

Double shit . I’m not ready for this kind of attention.

“Hot goth mom? Is that a good thing?”

Tyler grins. “A million percent. You’re the unholy trinity—hot, goth, and mommy. Go eat some souls tonight or whatever it is you goth girls do.”

“Damn straight.” Steph playfully snarls and claws at the air. “If a hot goth mommy isn’t a good time on any given Saturday night, then there is no justice in this world.”

My cheeks burn. “Please stop.”

But this is exactly why I fucking love them.

Tyler’s scooping more Reese’s into his mouth. How is he not sick from all of the candy he’s already eaten? “I know one man who will really appreciate it,” he says. “I bet Noah has a biting kink.”

See? I’m not the only one who thinks Noah could secretly be a vampire.

Stephanie waggles her eyebrows. “Ooh, is that why you’re wearing the slutty dress?”

Mortified, I pelt them both with pillows. “It’s not slutty! It’s edgy .”

God, I sound like Noah. This shirt isn’t boring, it’s clean and pressed!

“Right, sure,” Steph laughs, rolling her eyes. “And the cleavage-baring neckline is just part of the aesthetic, right?”

I glance down at my cleavage-baring neckline . “I mean yeah… it’s literally part of the aesthetic.”

So what if the neckline grabs his attention? The way I look at this man now, he may as well have stepped out of one of my Anne Rice novels, tall with a sharp jawline and perpetual bedhead like he crawled out of a velvet-lined coffin. Maybe I want him to look.

I’m only human .

Smoothing my hands down the stretchy fabric, Stephanie jumps up from the bed, striking a pose with her hands in the air. The stiff curls of her platinum blonde hair barely move thanks to the half can of Aqua Net we weaponized earlier after agonizing over those curlers of her mom’s.

“Steph, you look like a stripper, to be honest,” Tyler cackles through a mouthful of candy, orange crumbs tumbling down his chin.

“A goth dominatrix princess?” I offer, because I’m such a helpful friend.

She clicks her tongue. “Oh, and you’re such an expert on what strippers look like, Ty?”

Tyler bares all his teeth in a tight smile. “I watch documentaries.”

“Right, right. Documentaries.” I laugh as a chocolate missile whizzes past my head. “I hear they make them in video tape form, so you’re able to watch over and over for educational purposes.”

Another chocolate projectile gets thrown at me while the chunky black pearls around Stephanie’s neck swish slightly as she bows. She’s dressed as Madonna, complete with the white tutu and leather jacket over a black corset top that took us thirty minutes to lace up.

“Anyways,” she drawls, eyes lighting up as she gestures to Tyler on the bed. “His is still my favorite.”

Tyler leans back on the bed, angling his willowy body like the character he’s dressed as. His wild blonde wig is styled into spikes that also required a second can of Aqua Net. Glittery blue shadow sweeps across his eyes and the jacket he spent two weeks working on sparkles as he moves, completing his look as the perfect fey villain from Labyrinth .

As if he can’t be any more adorable, he runs a white-gloved hand down his torso. “You just like my perky goblin booty in these pants.”

A loud knock on the front door again draws our attention back to the hallway.

Right, right .

The TV’s blood-curdling screams underscore the silence as we all stare at each other as it sinks in that we’re about to go to our first real (official) high school party.

It seems like it was only yesterday that Stephanie and I sat criss-cross in Kevin, scheming how we’d finally go to one this year. Things changed fast. Now we’re dressed and personally invited by the popular king himself. It only took until our senior year to make it happen.

The knock repeats, more insistent this time. Stephanie turns off the TV, leaving it eerie quiet, only the wind outside whistling through bare branches filling the void.

And then Noah knocks again.

Right .

I clear my throat, affecting a Transylvanian accent. “Vell my pretties, shall ve?”

Taking a deep breath, I smooth my costume one last time and walk carefully down the hallway in my Docs.

Stephanie’s mom is running her bakery late tonight, so naturally we’d raided her liquor cabinet, chasing the burn of peach schnapps as we blasted Phil Collins. But that buzz has worn off, nerves now swallowing me whole and I’m starting to regret denying a shot thirty minutes ago.

Someone still had to drive.

I fling open the door and Noah stands there mid knock, his fist frozen in the air and the porch light shining on those trademark curls hanging over his eyes. He’s wearing a white t-shirt yet dressed all in black—dark jeans, Chucks, leather jacket with the popped collar—his already pale skin, and that damn single earring.

My gut does a nosedive when it clicks that he’s dressed as Michael from The Lost Boys .

The very vam-babe I’ve daydreamed about. In the flesh. On Steph’s mom’s welcome mat.

Of fucking course . Noah would somehow tap into my secret love for that movie.

All I can think about is how many times I’ve rewound that VHS tape, drooling over Michael while everyone else was busy losing their shit over David. Michael, with the rebel edge where he’s kind of bad but also kind of good. Michael, who I may or may not have imagined sweeping me off my feet on his motorcycle more times than I care to admit.

My heart continues its descent and plummets right down to my butt. Because I basically described Noah to a T. Especially the Noah standing on the doorstep right now.

I make a strangled noise like a cat being stepped on as the living, breathing incarnation of my dream guy stares down at me from behind those sunglasses. I can’t pinpoint where exactly he’s looking, but it tickles my skin everywhere.

Fighting the urge to cover up my stomach and chest with my arms, I resist, because— goddammit —I want to look hot tonight so here I am.

Can’t back down now, even with those icy blues lasering through his shades.

He keeps inspecting my costume with an inscrutable half-smirk that makes my bones melt. When he’s done, he uses a hand to slide his glasses down the bridge of his nose.

“You look…”

I can’t handle it. I just can’t.

My hand shoots out like I can physically block his words. “Hideous, I know. An absolute travesty.” I wave my hand even as my nerves riot beneath my fishnets.

Noah’s tongue darts out, wetting his bottom lip as his chin drops, undoubtedly traveling up and down my body in this itsy-bitsy dress.

“A damn mess, clearly,” he murmurs, stepping closer. One palm lands on the doorframe above my head, trapping me while his wintry eyes dance. “You look incredible, don’t stress.”

Those eyes, fuck. He’s looking at me like I’m a five-course meal and he’s been starving for centuries.

I scowl up at him, insides melting fast. “Now you’re just being nice. Go on, tell me I look like trash.”

Noah blinks, then grins wider. “Damn, you’re hard to please. Alright, you’re hideous. An absolute beast.”

“A crime scene, really.”

“A complete and total eyesore. How am I not blinded just by looking at you?”

A small laugh escapes my crimson lips, suddenly more than okay with his compliments. “I’m terrible. You should cover your eyes back up before you become permanently damaged from the horrifying sight.”

His knuckles pop against the doorframe, and the vibration travels down through my bones. “I don’t know, the force of your ugliness could burn a hole through my skull. I should probably leave now before the damage is done.”

“Please do,” I breathe, not meaning a word of it. “Though it’d be a shame if you missed out on my full hideousness.”

He chuckles some more, the sound rolling through me like thunder. My undead heart skips a beat.

“Mhm, just tragic.” Noah leans fractionally closer, filling my nose with leather and spice and I sway like a sapling in a storm. “Simply astonishing how unfortunate you look tonight.”

My breath catches, petrified under that dark stare as the steely gray around his dilated pupils swim and melt into a turbulent sea of blue from over his sunglasses. Why did this always feel like our own version of foreplay? And God help me, why do I love every second of it.

Lub dub.

My tongue darts out, wetting my lips. I want to break this dizzying mood we’ve set.

“Um, what’s with the scratch and sniff?” I gesture at the strawberry sticker placed on the side of his cheek that I missed, at the same time Stephanie shouts behind me, “Why are you holding a snake?”

My mouth drops open with an audible pop and I stumble backwards as the snake comes into view, wrapped around his fingers in his left hand. How the hell did I miss that?

Noah jumps, startled by the reactions. Almost like he was so focused on me that he didn’t notice he had a snake in his other hand. He looks back at the snake, then at me, and that’s when I realize what this is whenever his mouth stretches into the most evil thing I’ve ever seen.

He takes a slow step forward, holding the snake up between us. “I believe we have a dare to fulfill. I did my part, now it’s time for you to hold up your end.”

I glance back wildly at Stephanie, who gives me one of those “you got yourself into this” looks. Tyler looks like he wants to gag next to her, which I can’t decide if that offers me some comfort that he can relate, or if it makes me feel worse.

Unfortunately, Stephanie’s right—I did make this stupid bet. If Noah is willing to put a fruity sticker on his skin without gagging, then I have to touch a snake.

If he wins, I get a permanent souvenir on my skin—nothing vulgar as agreed upon, but still stuck with me forever. However, if I can tough this out, he has to jump naked into the pond, and then I’d actually get some of that fantasy fulfilled.

Not seeing him naked, obviously. But him crashing into the pond.

Option B is infinitely more appealing, and it seems possible until the snake starts moving around Noah’s hand, its scaly underbelly glinting. A blast of ice goes through me when the flat head crests his knuckle, obsidian eyes drilling right into mine.

Lifeless. Unblinking.

Fucking, fuck. Why don’t snakes blink?

I swallow a scream as the beast sizes me up.

Why did it have to be snakes? Why couldn’t I be scared of hamsters? Anything that can’t chase after me on belly scales, or at least something without the emotional capacity to hypnotize and strangle me? They’re nasty abominations shaped like limp licorice ropes and enough venom to end me.

Bile burns the back of my throat as traumatic second grade memories flood back—my teacher’s pet snake pissing on top of my notebook because my desk partner kept putting it on my desk to scare me. That image of yellow, hive-like urine deposits still gives me nightmares. Even their pee is shit I’d see in horror movies.

I can already taste the ink that’s going to be permanently stabbed into my skin later, mixed with those peach schnapp shots from earlier coming back up.

My eyes squeeze shut, blindly reaching out a trembling finger to poke it, and… quickly draw my hand back with a yelp before I can make contact.

“Touch it,” Noah taunts. “Chicken.”

My eyes fly open. I stumble back further, shaking my head vigorously. “No—nope, I can’t do it. It’s not happening.”

“Can’t or won’t?” His lip curls up as he keeps the snake poised right in front of my face. “Come on. It doesn’t even bite. Touch the snake,” he insists, then bursts out laughing when I scowl at him.

He’s enjoying this too much.

“Goddamn it.” Why did I agree to this again? The thought of being branded with a tattoo is one thing, but the way his eyes are locked on mine over his glasses, expecting me to touch this gross thing? Very humiliating.

The least I can do is touch the goddamn thing.

I can do this. I can totally do this . I can fucking do this.

The tiny black forked tongue flicks out again, grazing my hand this time. I recoil with a gasp. “Abso—fucking—lutely not. Get it away from me!”

He’s shaking his head, and I’m scrambling backward until Stephanie and Tyler are basically my human shields. Nowhere left to go.

The snake’s beady eyes continue to stare at me, and its slimy body squirms around Noah’s fingers. Tonight, that hand is definitely off-limits.

Noah, with his sadistic joy, dangles it closer. “One little touch, that’s all you need to do. That’s all it takes to avoid ink.”

I vehemently shake my head again, unable to tear my eyes away from the snake’s unblinking ones.

My skin is crawling as its tongue tastes the air inches from my dress.

“I can’t do it,” I whimper, hating the weakness in my voice. “You win, now get it the hell away from me!”

The panic of being backed into this corner has my hands fluttering to escape. To illustrate my point, I bat limply at the snake and it responds by twisting around Noah’s wrist, flicking its tongue along one strong tendon.

My stomach heaves.

Noah’s brow furrows, watching me cower against my friends for another two seconds. He squints down at the black scales, and then his smile falls.

“Okay, okay.” To my immense relief, he crouches down, gently placing the snake in the grass. “There you go, little buddy,” he murmurs, poking its disgusting head with the tip of his finger.

The light in my heart returns as Stephanie and Tyler pat my back.

The moment it’s set free, the snake slithers away through the grass and into the bushes underneath Stephanie’s front window. I cautiously step away from my friends, my legs still shaky as I move back onto the porch. Noah rises up, and I give the bushes a wide berth, cringing as they rustle.

“I fucking hate you,” I growl, slipping past him and out to where there is sweet, snakeless freedom.

He grabs for my arm with his snake hand. “Come on, Roxanne, I’m teasing—”

I wrench away with a hiss. “Don’t touch me, snake toucher!”

His lips twitch. “Look, you could’ve touched it. I know you could’ve.”

I shoot him a dirty look over my shoulder. “Sure, and I could also let a rabid raccoon use my face as a chew toy. But am I going to?” I mimic raking my face with imaginary claws for emphasis. Stephanie full-on belly laughs from the porch.

Noah just tongue-in-cheek nods. “Rabid raccoons, got it. Noted.”

I flip him off before storming towards my car, making sure to pointedly avoid all contact with the grass. The bushes are still shaking where the spawn of Satan slithered off.

I look ridiculous tiptoeing around like a burglar, but I don’t care. I don’t know why I’m so upset when I should be grateful I didn’t have to touch it, but I embarrassed myself even more by attempting to face the fear and squealed like a fucking kid in front of an audience. It ruins my whole sexy goth queen image tonight.

Storming towards the driver’s side of my car, Noah catches up to me quickly. I make the mistake of looking over at him as I stick my keys in the door to unlock it.

He’s still grinning at me, hanging his glasses in the collar of his shirt, not bothered in the slightest that I’m trying so hard to hate him right now. Bastard doesn’t even have the decency to look bad about it.

I spit a glare his way. “You’re a gigantic dick, you know that?”

In that Noah fashion, he winks. “I’ve been called worse.”

I yank the door open. “Well add prick, jackass—”

One hand presses against the car door, slamming it shut while his other arm slings over my shoulder, backing my front against the car. Heat floods my entire body at the contact, and I stare at the snake hand splayed against my window while his lips touch the shell of my ear.

“I’m also a scumbag, cocky, insufferable, disgusting, a pain in the ass...” His eyes rake down on me in the reflection of the window. “And I never lose.”

I exhale shakily, pulse turning up to the max level as I turn to meet his hooded gaze. So dark and devastating. Up this close, I can see the flecks of black ringing his blown-out pupils.

“Don’t be mad,” he whispers. “It’s not my fault you got scared by a teeny tiny snake.”

“That was not a teeny tiny snake,” I snap. It was . “It was a huge monster snake. And you’re still a prick.”

His warm laughter tickles below my earlobe and I stiffen. Staring straight ahead through the car’s window, I focus on the porch steps as Stephanie and Tyler sway to the side and head our way, and god, I wish I was that tipsy.

I glance back at Noah from the corner of my eye, and that twinkle in his gets darker than ever as he stares directly at my mouth. My lips feel almost hot.

I clear my throat and turn away from him. “Can we stop now?” I mumble, the fire draining out of me. Mostly I feel small. “This isn’t funny anymore.”

The sound of rocks grinding against the road signals his step back, and my lungs deflate once his hands leave my vision. He circles the car to the passenger side, though he’s still watching me from over the hood.

“Ready for your new tattoo?”

I roll my eyes and open the car door. “Not in the slightest.”

He opens the passenger door, pushes down the seat, then leans against the window. “You made your bed, Roxanne. Time for you to lie in it.”

You’ll be lying in my bed , he’d said.

More like a coffin.

“As long as I can pick it.”

“You can absolutely pick it,” he agrees as I click on my seatbelt.

I take a deep breath, my heart rate finally slowing. “I’m thinking a snake with a big red ‘X’ over it.”

Noah barks out a laugh as Stephanie and Tyler crawl in over the seat. As terrified as I am, I have to admit there’s a bit of excitement about getting some ink done. Nothing too big or outrageous, only a permanent reminder of how this asshole got under my skin—literally.

I’ve always toyed with the idea of getting a tattoo one day, but I can barely commit to a sticker and have to tape them where I want them in case I change my mind later. How the fuck do people choose something to wear forever? It’s like trying to choose a perfect bumper sticker to define your entire existence.

How does one encapsulate their life on one patch of skin?

Alas, my dermis has remained a blank canvas. Maybe I’ll start with something small, like a tasteful unicorn with fangs, riding a steampunk flaming double-bass drum kit through a graveyard at midnight. We’ll throw in the moon hovering overhead, with some bats flying around.

Oh, and let’s not forget a couple of roses getting shredded through the drum set wheels for that added dash of hardcore edge.

That’s probably out of Noah’s wheelhouse, though. Speaking of stickers...

He peels his off his cheek, grimacing as he rolls it between his fingers, flicks it into the street, then pushes the seat upright before crawling in. He stretches an arm along the headrest behind me, angling his body to face mine.

“Fair is fair.” His voice dips lower, meant for my ears only. “If I know you at all, Roxanne, I think you wanted to lose all along.”

Fingers clenched bloodless on the steering wheel, I avoid meeting his eyes. Maybe— and that’s a big fucking maybe —he’s right. About me always backing down from our dares, pretending not to live for the rush.

I like the thrill of his attention zeroed on me alone, his Neptune eyes tracing my every reaction. Almost like he always wants me to lose too. To have an excuse to mark me. Claim me.

A secret part of myself wants that—wants him—so damn much. Wants to be pulled into his sticky web and rolled up nice and tight, same as the sticker he tossed in the street.

I peek at him through my hair. He’s staring at my mouth again, eyes simmering as he untucks his glasses from his shirt. My heart skyrockets so violently I know he can hear it in the total silence, especially when his gaze flicks up, and those eyes pin me in place.

I turn the engine and crank the radio up.

Maybe I wanted to lose.

With Noah? Yeah. I always kind of did.

My boot stomps on the gas. Stephanie and Tyler giggle in the back as they pass her flask back and forth, and Noah slouches in his seat, stretching his long legs out. Before we hit the east side of town, he jerks his chin toward a gas station, lit up in green neon and asking me to make a pit stop.

Not even letting me throw the parking brake, he’s already unfolding himself from the passenger seat, all lean muscle and feline grace. He pauses at the open passenger window, knuckles braced on the frame, hidden eyes catching mine and holding me once again.

This is getting a little ridiculous.

“Want anything?” Amusement spices his voice. He knows exactly what impact he has on me, the jerk. I hope he sits on his Walkman and breaks it.

From the backseat, Tyler pipes up in an exaggerated sultry voice, “If Noey-Bear’s paying.”

Noah’s lips twitch. “Sure, whatever you want. Go nuts.”

“Hell, yes!” My friend pops up and drapes himself over the middle console, starting to list off his fingers as if he’s at a drive-thru window. “I want a large slushie, but I want you to mix every flavor together—cherry, blue raspberry, strawberry, and coke—until there’s an inch of each and then keep repeating until it’s full to the brim.”

We all observe Noah swallow down a gag.

Tyler goes on to illustrate with his fingers how thin the flavors should be layered. “And no pi?a colada! I hate coconut.”

“You’re a hazard to society,” he grumbles.

“I’ll take a bag of Twizzlers,” Steph adds.

Then Noah turns to me, tipping his glasses down until I see his full eyes. “And you, mistress?”

Mistress. My face ignites as Steph and Tyler lose their minds giggling.

I lick my suddenly dry lips. “Uh, a Pepsi free… or Tab for tonight.”

He raises an eyebrow. “No sugar?”

“Yeah, I don’t want that right now. It gives me teeth sweaters.”

The corner of his mouth ticks up.“What the hell did you just say?”

“You know”—I wiggle my fingers in front of my mouth—“that nasty gritty feeling it leaves on your front teeth?”

He stares at me for a beat, then shakes his head with a laugh as he steps away from the car. “Teeth sweaters. Got it.”

“Teeth sweaters, Roxy?” Stephanie howls from the back.

“New band name,” Tyler declares, both of them busting a fucking gut over it. “Called it.”

I slide down in my seat while my so-called friends loudly lose it.

“Yeah, yeah, yuck it up,” I grumble.

“Oh, get me some Skittles!” Stephanie hollers after Noah, gripping onto the headrest.

“And some Jolt Cola!” Tyler caterwauls at full volume. As if he needs more energy.

Noah shoots them a thumbs up as he disappears inside. For some reason watching him cater to my friends does things to me. Sunshine blooming in my chest cavity, all gooey and sweet like marshmallow fluff, kinds of things.

Is this what it feels like to have a guy wrapped around your finger? Someone who wants to impress not only you but your whole crew? I gnaw my thumbnail, trying to squash the thought. We’re friends and he’s only being nice because apparently that’s what Noah Jackson is. Nice.

Tyler and Stephanie start cooing and poking at my shoulder from the back. “ Mistress . Shall I fetch your whip?”

I flip them both off without looking. “I’ll fetch my foot up your ass if you don’t can it.”

Steph leans forward, her breath a toxic cloud from the hellbrew in that flask. “When are you gonna jump his bones already? The sexual tension is so thick I could spread it on toast.”

“There’s no sexual tension,” I mutter, picking at my fishnets. “We’re friends.”

“Bullshit,” Tyler coughs into his fist.

I catch a glimpse of Noah through the store window, his lanky frame bent over the Slurpee machine. “He’s... Noah,” I say lamely. “He looks at everyone like that.”

Tyler makes a noise like a dying kazoo. “He doesn’t look at me like he’s trying to telepathically remove my clothes or live inside my pants.”

I whip around and smack his arm, though it makes the chuckleheads laugh harder. “You guys are the worst. I’m getting new friends.”

“Nah,” Steph says, reaching over to ruffle my hair. “You’re stuck with us, Teeth Sweaters.”

I ignore the drunk hyenas, running my nails along the ridges of the steering wheel while cranking up the radio. I’m nobody’s mistress. I’m a girl perpetually losing bets. Nothing irresistible or commanding in the slightest about me, even if he called me that word so easily.

Yeah, I’m dressed as the literal mistress of evil, but he let it roll off his tongue like it belonged there. Makes me wonder if he pictures me with a riding crop, commanding his every move.

God, the image makes my lungs constrict.

Maybe being a mistress wouldn’t be the worst. At least I’d have someone to fetch me slushies in every flavor.

The door chimes and Noah’s back, armed with a bulging plastic bag he drops onto the passenger seat.

“Gimme!” Stephanie grabs for the Twizzlers. Tyler snatches the radioactive slushie from his hands, slurping loudly through the straw. Noah presents me with a strawberry sprinkle donut, grinning when I happily accept it while he rips open a bag of Doritos.

He cranks the stereo as I pull out onto the main road, knowing that I do not want to thank him for being nice and knowing a simple fact about me. Tyler and Noah both sing along to The Power by Snap! loudly, and occasionally debate their favorite Hip-House bands while the flask continues making its rounds.

I couldn’t wait to be on the receiving end. Anything to quiet the voice in my head that keeps repeating mistress .

Chris’ house stands tall at the end of the block, a stately two-story flanked by old oaks draped in tendrils of Spanish moss. Tonight though, it’s all about those orange string lights hanging over the branches, the neatly cut lawn now a graveyard of cardboard tombstones.

I park against the curb, across from the creature feature unfolding in the driveway.

A zoo of people are milling about, some dressed as various horror movie villains. They pass drinks, laughter carrying on the crisp autumn air while I eye all of the red solo cups thrown on the lawn. Even the music thumps from across the street, where I see one guy rush out the front door to start hurling into a bush.

Yeah, this is gonna be wild.

“The Sacred Party Commandments, as decreed by... uh, me, five minutes ago.” Noah twists around to face my friends, pointing a warning finger at the two still taking swigs of schnapps. “Don’t yack or Roxanne here will mount your heads on her drums.”

Tyler cracks up mid-swallow, spraying schnapps all over himself. Steph tries not to lose it as she wipes some back spatter off her cheek, then hands Ty the flask once more.

“Two: Thou shalt not abandon thy squad. Use the buddy system, people.”

“Like kindergarten?” Tyler snorts.

“Exactly like kindergarten,” Noah shot back.“Three: yell if anyone gives you shit.” He ticks off another digit, laying down the law. “And four: if you're not doing something that would make your parents disown you, you're not doing it right.”

Stephanie and Tyler nod, eyes solemn as if he imparted the meaning of life. Then they dissolve into fresh giggles.

“Any questions?”

Silence.

“Good,” I say, reaching for my door handle. “Now can we please—”

Noah’s ringed hand is already flinging the door open and throwing the seat down for the other two. Shaking my head, I grab my pack of menthols and stash the whole thing in the side of my bra, and climb out into the cool air with everyone else. I lock up, tucking my keys behind the belt at my waist.

Noah falls into a step beside me, his shoulder brushing mine. He jerks his chin toward the people going in and out of the house. “You ready for this, mistress?”

That forbidden word in his voice makes my knees wobble. I tip my chin up to cover it.

“Are you going to keep calling me that?” I ask as we approach the vomit bush, the techno music leaking through the walls.

Glancing sidelong, he pushes his glasses back up his sharp nose. “Yeah. All night, probably.”

I snort, pausing on the doorstep that smells like spilled beer. “Don’t tell me you’ve run out of awful things to say about my horrendous body and hideousness. That would be tragic.”

“Not at all.” One side of his mouth lifts as he holds the front door wide open. “I’m just getting warmed up.”

We all squeeze through the doorway and holy shit...

People are packed shoulder to shoulder, costumes swirling under a rotating disco ball in the foyer. Lava lamps are on tables everywhere, and every surface glows neon under the black lights. Even the ceilings are draped in toilet paper cobwebs.

Our shoes stick to the hardwood floor covered in fake blood and squished candy corn. We navigate past a mass of bodies with my friends following, dodging some people in neon leggings and capes. A killer clown holds up a rubber chainsaw above the crowd, chasing a squealing cheerleader in red face paint.

Noah’s arm wraps around my waist then, pulling me close, and my heart pinches. His breath tickles my ear as he speaks loudly over the music. “Stay close so I don’t lose you in this madness.”

A shiver skitters down my spine at his thumb pushing underneath my belt. I inhale deeply, the humidity in the house heavy with the energy of all of the people and the weed smell.

God. This is so much better than the bonfire.

Already losing Stephanie and Tyler, Noah guides me through the packed—and massive—house. I take his hand, my heart beating so damn fast as I absorb everything around me. Pump Up The Jam blasts from the speakers as we pass marble pillars wrapped in crime scene tape, and carved jack-o-lanterns sitting at their base.

To my right, a group falls into a laughing pile on the white carpet after playing a game of Twister in the living room. To my left, a circle of people hover around a long dining table, holding red cups and taking turns to reach out and spin the bottle in the middle. Girls with glowing teeth snap photos on their point-and- shoot cameras, while others sit cross-legged in a circle trying to summon spirits in a seance in the middle of the second living room that branches off from the dining area.

Sheesh. How many living rooms does one house need?

Through the glass door at the end of the hall in front of me, I spot a bunch of people playing beer pong outside, hollering as ping pong balls bounce into red cups. A giant guy in a Hulk Hogan costume flexes on top of a keg, with a werewolf lighting up a cigarette behind him.

Nothing can hold back the giant grin on my face. The only thing officially missing is the flash mob.

I turn up to Noah, his face bathed in trippy lights. His skin glows neon blue, making me appreciate his messy dark curls falling over his forehead a little more. And the ends that twist and curl around his neck and ears with a touch of whimsy. It’s weird—his pretty bone structure with the anarchy of his hair.

The pianist’s hands meet the edge of a guitar once again.

We veer into the kitchen at the end of the hall. “Here we are,” he says, bringing me in front of him to the black granite island counter, the surface covered in empty bottles and crumpled napkins. Dropping my hand, he steps behind me, his chest pressing into my back as he stretches his arms over my shoulder to pour himself a beer from the small keg set in the middle of the counter.

“You want one?” He fills up another red cup halfway and sets it in front of me. “Or is this stuff forbidden for the undead queen?”

I roll my eyes, even though he can’t see my face, and lift the cup to my lips. “This is my one night out, so tonight I’m cutting loose. I’m drinking, cursing, doing all the bad drugs.” I take a long swig, the warm bubbles burning my throat. “Maybe I’ll even hook up with one of your friends. If I feel like it.”

He laughs into his cup, draining it down to the bottom. “I don’t doubt it. A little alcohol would give a dead girl the courage she needs.” He reaches over me to refill our drinks, voice lowering. “But careful, mistress. You might start wanting that every weekend. What will you do then? Your reputation would be ruined.”

“Unlike some, I can control myself.” I toss the words over my shoulder like I don’t care, feeling his eyes watch me through those shades.

“If you cozied up to one of my meathead friends tonight...” His tone holds a new edge that slithers down my spine. “You sure that wouldn’t ruin your rep?”

I wet my lips with another sip. “I don’t know. But can you imagine the scandal?”

“That would certainly rustle some feathers.” His answering laugh thrums through me where his chest meets my back. Noah leans around me for another refill, his lips back at my ear, this time with an unspoken threat in his voice that makes my blood sing. “Tell me, who’s the lucky guy?”

My thighs pulse and I pretend to consider my options, scoping out the wasted boys standing around the kitchen.

“Let’s see.” Another big gulp, and I remember what Angela said to me the other week. And I really want to stoke the fire behind those sunglasses. “Chris, obviously. He’s hot in that ‘I can do sinful things with a Twizzler’ kind of way. And he seems like the type who’d be down for anything.” I tilt my head slightly back, Noah’s chin just above my forehead now. “I bet I could have my way with him if I got him alone.”

A sly grin is on those lips that aren’t too far from my own, and the noise in the kitchen turns into background static.

“Then why haven’t you?” His jaw ticks as he takes a sip of his beer. “I wouldn’t stop you. He’s a good looking guy, and I can understand the impulse.”

My heart races. I know he’s kidding. At least, I hope he’s kidding.

“Maybe I’m waiting for the right time. Who knows, tonight could be the night.” I twist my lips to the side, leaning forward to take another drink.

He chuckles, the warmth disappearing from my neck as he brings his beer up from over my shoulder. I scan the kitchen rapidly filling up with more bodies dressed in costumes weaving around people dancing, laughing, or making out. Jelly bracelets and popcorn litter the counter between forgotten drinks, and newly emptied vodka bottles that have melted Jolly Ranchers in them.

If I wasn’t already buzzing, I’d be more stressed out by how dirty and busy this place is.

Noah’s breath comes in hot on my neck again. “Your admirer is staring.”

What? My brows pinch, and I glance around the room, moving from body to body until I spot Harley in the corner of the kitchen, giving me the stink eye with his arm around his new girlfriend, both dressed as JD and Veronica Sawyer.

There’s a bitter taste on my tongue. I’m pretty sure I pitched that costume idea for us when we talked about Halloween over the summer.

What an asshole move.

Seeing Harley and I stand off, Riley meets my eyes.

My fingers go slack around my drink because her bitchy act cracks. In this tiny, fractured moment, I get a glimpse of the Riley I used to know—her smiling face free of makeup, looking back from her microphone stand as I come in on a drum solo, her head bobbing in the summer heat. Her fingers holding my chin as she carefully traces black liner along my upper lid. Riley cuddling next to me in her bed as we take the latest Cosmo quiz, her hair tickling my nose as she flips the pages.

Then she notices my attention and her walls slam back up.

She whips her head aside sharply, red curls bouncing. Harley keeps glowering past my shoulder, but I’m too focused on Riley’s profile, struck by the old friendship I glimpsed.

What was that about? Is she finally growing a conscience after all this time?

Those questions splinter when she gives Harley an icy glare, pulling his chin toward her. I know Riley enough to know she doesn’t want to break her cool more than once, so I’m not surprised when she turns away and pours herself another drink.

Noah steps closer, drawing me back when his chest bumps against my back. Tonight isn’t about her or Harley’s shit.

“I don’t care,” I say, tossing back my drink. “Harley is the furthest thing from my mind tonight.”

“To partying and arguing then,” Noah cheers, raising his drink for a clink. That reignites my smile.

“To partying and arguing.”

We clink cups before I finish my drink completely, my cheeks heating and legs feeling all tingly.

“I have to let you know,” Noah whispers, so deep in my ear that I'm able to hear the fucking smirk in his voice. “That I still can’t believe this is the guy who used to have your legs quaking.”

“Shut it.” My cheeks burn even more and I slam my empty cup on the counter. “He’s not even a blip on my radar tonight. That’s all in the past anyway.”

“Not a blip?” Every time he takes a breath, his chest presses into my shoulder blades and it sends lightning shooting down my neck, across my open chest. “Not even a little bit?”

I fill my cup with fresh beer and swallow another gulp, trying to drown the swarm of moths taking flight low in my stomach. Why does he insist on standing so close? Can he feel my heart throwing itself against my rib? See the gooseflesh pebbling my skin wherever his eyes land, tracing invisible lines that linger like a ghost touching me?

“Harley is a spineless piece of trash,” I reply with a sharp breath. Noah has to be able to feel my lungs against him. My thin dress lets me feel every ridge and edge down to his belt, the jacket, and his shirt. “Maybe I’ve grown out of dating boys who think their shitty art makes up for their lack of balls.”

“Fuck, it’s so hot when you talk your shit.”

My eyes widen. All the moisture in my body is quickly collecting in one spot, as well as those moth wings swirling around in there. “Then I must be Christina Applegate to you all of the time.”

“Maybe, but it’s you I can’t take my eyes or mind off of.” He closes that last inch between us until I feel the subtle pressure of his zipper against my lower back.

I suck in a breath and grip the cup tighter.

Is the kitchen actually so crowded that he’s being shoved into me, or is he intentionally pressing into me, playing with the idea of taking me and bending me over the damn counter? My lungs are definitely pumping harder now while every part of my body comes alive.

“Is it the liquor then?” He whispers down in my ear. “Because you seem to be shaking like a leaf and your crush Chris isn’t here either.”

Dickface .

“Isn’t Chris here? This is his house after all.”

“Of course he is.” Noah puts his mouth to my ear like he’s been doing all night, pressing into me until my stomach pushes into the edge of the counter. “He just can’t hear you call his name.”

I push back with my hip to be playful, and his buckle digs into my low back, making me think about all the bad things you should never think about someone you hate.

Noah emits a low, throaty sound that zips straight to my core as he brackets his arms on either side of me, fighting back. Our bodies mold together, my palms next to his as I lean back into him, trying to force against being shoved.

My skin, already too sensitive to the feeling in my gut, makes me helpless to that feral claw building inside me as it always does around him. I instinctively arch back into him with a gasp as I push against him again. Along my spine, I feel the rumble of his groan.

Sweet Mistress of Evil. With his hard chest and hips anchoring me from behind while oblivious drunk teenagers walk around us feet away, I’ve never felt so exposed.

Or so fucking desperate.

If he tried to kiss me right now, would I give in? As I look down at his fingers next to mine, the tree branch veins popping out, I honestly don’t know….

The alcohol isn’t helping, making my thoughts too hazy, the pounding music so distracting, and my legs worse for wear. I need to get out of here ASAP. It would be too simple for his hand to slide in between the slit of my dress, and touch me where I’m fucking aching.

He laughs at me trying to shove back, chest rumbling against me one more time as more people cram into the kitchen and I breathe harder against his body.

My wild eyes land on salvation. A glass bowl piled high with neon green jelly cubes. The kind of recipe I’m pretty sure I’ve seen straight out of my mom's Cosmo magazine.

I turn my head, lips brushing his angled jaw. “Vitally important query,” I rasp, tasting his aftershave on my tongue. “Any chance you've got a vendetta against gelatin? Traumatic Jell-O incident as a child, perhaps?”

He pauses, thrown. Disorientation wars across his stupid—dumb—pretty face.

“Jello?” He blinks hard, like a man awakening from a vivid dream. Or fighting to retain control. “Me? I… Jell-o? That’s laughable.”

I pluck out two cubes and hold one up with a smirk. “Truly tragic.”

He grins, ducking his head over my shoulder for the cube in between my fingers, keeping his eyes locked onto mine from the side as his lips wrap around my nails, sucking the gelatin into his mouth. Molten sparks shoot up my arm as he takes his sweet time s-l-o-w-l-y dragging his lips back with a soft pop, my empty fingers left damp and tingling and wanting.

So much for dialing it down.

Forcing myself to settle the hell down, I take my own jello shot, the taste surprisingly strong.

“JT!”

We turn toward the sound, spotting Chris Heath, who’s squeezing his way past people with his cup raised in the air, dressed as Rambo. Noah quirks his dark brow and gives me a glance. I sincerely hope he knows I was playing around with wanting to hook up with Chris.

Looking at him now though, all I hear is Angela’s words in my head. And as he tap dances over to Oingo Boingo, headband slipping down his forehead, I struggle to match this pint-sized partier with the sex god image. The top of his head barely hits Noah’s chest as he claps him on the back, bouncing on his toes, already three sheets to the wind. He looks about as dangerous as a care bear wearing the belt of bullets strapped across his scrawny chest.

“Nice costume,” Noah shouts over the music. Chris doesn’t hear, buzzing around the kitchen on a mission to refill his cup. He nearly face-plants tripping over his camo pants.

I fail to restrain a very un-mistress-like snort. When I glance back at Noah, his eyes are dancing as he presses one hand over his heart.

“Clearly I underestimated the animal magnetism of one Chris Heath,” he teases.

Unable to hold it in anymore, I laugh into my cup as Chris sets his against the counter and grabs a bottle from a table behind him. As he starts to pour brown liquor into shot glasses, Noah mouths to me behind his back, “That’s your stud?”

I bite my cheek. “Shut up.”

Next to Noah, Chris looks about as seductive as soggy toast.

“Drink up, dudes!” the host crows, spinning around and shoving the full shot glasses at us. Whiskey sloshes over his knuckles.

“Wow. Thank god for Rambo,” Noah laughs, swigging it back easily.

Really needing something to take the edge off, I take the glass from his fingers and fling it back. Even as the liquid burns layers off my throat, I hold my glass out for him to pour another one.

He graciously tops me off. Many times.

We all fling back shot after shot, the scent of sweat and spilled beer becoming a normal smell that now gives a new comfort. Definitely one of those smells that if I ever smelled it again I’d think of this night.

While Chris blathers on about his costume inspiration, his ammo belt now serving as a scarf, Noah catches my eye, tonguing his cheek like he always does when he’s about to rag on me. The look says: still think you’re taking Captain Klutz home tonight?

I narrow my eyes and throw back shot number three thousand.

A hand cups Chris’ shoulder and out slides Hayden from behind him, dressed in a black leather jacket that looks suspiciously similar to Noah’s costume. Except with Hayden’s buzzed hair, he looks more like the Terminator than a vampire. He’s clutching red solo cups, a bottle of Amaretto, and... is that a lighter?

“Flaming Dr. Pepper shots?” Chris yells over the music, and Hayden grins.

Noah snickers, glancing once at me. “You up for a little fire breathing?”

My eyes round watching as Hayden pours a can of beer into the solo cup. I’m not sure where the Dr. Pepper comes in, but drinking a lit beer doesn’t exactly scream “fun” to me.

“Come on!” Chris is now dancing in place while snapping his fingers rhythmically. The headband keeps slipping down over his eyes, and a small snort leaves my nose while I mindlessly fiddle with a package of fruit roll ups that sat lonesome at the edge of the counter.

“I’ll do one,” Noah adds, pushing his glasses up to the top of his head and looking down at me. “But only if she does.”

My nails sink through the crinkled plastic in my hands. “No way,” I protest, sounding so much more whiny than I wanted. “I’m not swallowing fire. That sounds like actual death.”

Noah’s already in front of me, backing me against the counter again. “You think I would let you die?”

“You just want to see me burn my throat apart.”

“I think your throat’s more like rubber than cotton. Now I could do without your tongue, though,” he says, and I kind of want to die. A muscle spasms in my neck while he pries the mangled fruit snack from my hand and tosses it aside. “It’s not that bad. Trust me. And if you do die, I’ll let you haunt me.”

He’s doing it again—taking control of the situation in a way that feels completely intoxicating. How does he always make me feel like I can do anything? Because I’m about two seconds away from letting that yes lift off my tongue.

It’s not helping my judgment with him so close, and every breath I take is a scratch-and-sniff sticker of him, each whiff discovering different notes and memories. Thank the stars I live by pine trees, so I can smell him every night before I have to enter my house of death.

“Please, Roxanne.” Fuck, now he’s pouting.

I fold my lips between my teeth. Downing liquid fire sounds horrible, but let’s face it—I’m helpless to resist when he looks at me like my answer might make or break his entire night.

“Fine,” I whisper, pulse racing triple time. The things I do for this fucker.

His grin brightens the kitchen as Chris lights the shot on fire. We each take turns dropping the flaming shot into the beer and chugging it as quickly as possible. The taste is sweet and strong, and the heat slides down my throat.

“Atta girl,” Noah whispers deep into the pit of my ear when he— sweet baby Bauhaus —gives me a soft tap on the ass. Time stretches like a slinky tumbling down infinite stairs. “Now do another one and I’ll be back.”

Rewind. Did that just happen? It takes my alcohol-soaked neurons at least ten seconds to process everything. Surely that was just some mindless bro-code gesture? The kind of casual fuckery that usually precedes belching contests and conversations about the aerodynamics of farts, right?

Yeah. Must be. Totally normal.

I wage an internal war against the urge to paw at my backside. The ghost of his touch lingers, a paranormal tingling aftershock that filters down between my legs and threatens to short-circuit what's left of my higher reasoning.

“Hold up.” I turn to glare at him. “Where are you going?”

His face blooms with a wide grin, hiding his eyes as he pulls down his sunglasses. “I’m taking a piss, unless you wanna come watch.”

I make a disgusted face. “Yeah, I’ll pass on that show.”

“I’ll come! I’ll even hold it for you, bro!” Chris exclaims, latching onto his back. Noah carries him piggy back style out of the kitchen.

Great. Now it’s me and the Terminator here, who’s either really committed to his costume or is that stoic when he’s drunk. His stare has my eyes shifting like a sprinkler to avoid it at all costs and my jaw nearly grinding my teeth into powder.

Please don’t talk to me. I take a step away. I should just go busy myself with someone else. I…

“Do you want to do another?” he asks me.

I cross my arms over my body, every muscle tense without Noah around. I need his eyes on me to feel at ease, his words of encouragement in my ears.

His hand tapping at my ass.

Hayden must sense my nerves since he laughs and starts to step closer to me. He purses his lips, tilting his head before coming to stand right next to me. I keep my eyes locked ahead to see if Noah and Chris are coming back as his elbow brushes mine.

No such luck.

He leans in, hand resting on the small of my back, and I stiffen. “Here, I’ll make you another one.”

“Um, actually, I’m gonna run to the bathroom too,” I mumble, ducking away from him.

His hand leaves a cold mark on my skin that I want to scrub off. I don’t glance back to see if I've offended him and rush into the foyer, less concerned with the bathroom and more with finding the front door so I can smoke a cigarette far away from him.

The lighter comes in contact with my cigarette as soon as I step outside, and I have never been so grateful to take a puff from something I save for the best of times. I move over to the right side of the door, leaning against the wooden fence that borders the porch, the air gently chilling my warm skin as I inhale what tastes like chocolate chip mint ice cream.

My cigarette balances between my fingers, the smoke of it wafting up into my eyes and around my hair. A laugh sits in my chest when I see someone dressed as Danny from Grease whooping it up with a six-pack as he climbs the stairs with the rest of the thunderbirds.

“Hey.”

Christ.

I nearly hack up a lung and grip at my heart when Harley slither out of the shadows.

Oh, fuck no. There is no way I’m going to deal with this right now. And as much as I hate wasting, I smash the cigarette under my boot, leaving it half-finished.

I’d rather deal with Hayden.

I whirl around, bolting towards the door only to feel my arm held back. My body tenses, skin crawling at his touch. Why do people keep touching me unwarranted tonight?

Slowly, I twist my head and my eyes meet those hazels that used to make me melt. “Please get your hands off me,” I growl through gritted teeth.

“I only want to talk,” he says, as calm as could be. As if we were simply two old chums meeting for tea.

It makes my blood boil.

“No, you just want to ruin my night.” All things considered, it’s a restrained response. But wow. I really said that to his face?

Harley’s grip on my arm tightens, not planning to let me go anytime soon. “Please, listen to me. Noah is not your friend. He’s using you.”

I roll my eyes. Does he really think he has any right to warn me off from other guys after how things crashed and burned with us? That ship has sailed, sunk, and settled on the ocean floor.

“Noah isn’t using me,” I tell him. “He’s just being nice.”

“He’s not being nice,” Harley insists, squeezing me tighter. I wrinkle my nose at the overpowering smell of beer emanating from him. Apparently any trace of Harley’s usual reserve has been washed away in a flood of alcohol.

“Trust me, I know a thing or two about guys like him. Noah’s dangerous. Don’t you see it? He’s manipulated you already, and he’ll hurt you if you let him.”

My eyes narrow. I know what Harley’s trying to pull, but the alcohol’s starting to mess with my head, and the emotions I’ve been shoving under are beginning to surface.

Noah is dangerous.

He makes me feel so good when I’m with him, and hope is a four-letter word I can't afford. It's dangerous for someone like me. Hope is the reason I still flinch when I hear bottles clinking in the trash. It's a poison I can't risk tasting, not with the work I have to do, and the promise to Dad that I have to keep.

“So what?” I say, with as much attitude as I can give. “I’m a big girl. I can make my own decisions. I don’t need your protection or approval of who I hang out with.”

He looks away, thinking. But when he makes up his mind about whatever, he finally drops my arm. “You can make your own decisions, but the fact of the matter is, you’re making the wrong one.”

I almost laugh in his face.

If I wasn’t furious at him before, I sure as hell am now. The audacity of him to tell me about how I’m making a mistake with Noah while he had cheated on me with who knows how many other girls? I’m floored.

“The wrong decision?” I repeat, my words dripping with bitter sarcasm. “What do you know, Harley? And why are you telling me this?”

“Because I still care about you!” The sound is loud and makes my ears ring and my body wince. “I don’t want you to get hurt. It kills me to think of him treating you the way I did.”

He cares about me? Since fucking when? He never said it when we were together, and certainly never acted like it. Why now? Because he thinks I’ve moved on, so suddenly I’m worth a damn?

“Yeah, you already did a bang-up job of that yourself.”

He glances away, looking uncomfortable. Good. I want my words to sting. After months of pain he’d caused, it’s his turn to hurt.

“You didn’t have to date another girl three days after dumping me,” I hiss. “If you never meant to hurt me, what do you call that?”

I don’t want to get into the nitty gritty of the situation, but I can’t ignore it.

He glances up then, a pleading look on his face that might’ve swayed me once. Now it leaves me numb. “Look, Roxanne, I’m not perfect. I screwed up, big time. But I still regret it and you know I never meant to hurt you.”

Do I?

I search for any sign he’s being genuine. It would be nice to believe him, but I’ve been fooled before.

“Yeah, I know. I should have told you,” he rambles on. “But I... I was afraid. I wasn’t sure what I was feeling towards you.” Harley runs a hand through his hair in that way I used to think was cute. I remember dreaming about touching those soft locks. Now the thought doesn’t stir anything within me.

“Can I ask you a selfish question, Roxy?”

I shrug, keeping my body language closed off. “Why stop now?”

“Do you still care about me? Even a little bit? I don’t want to have to ask, but I have to know.”

The world goes silent, and it feels like even the party stops around us. I want to lie through my teeth and say I don’t give a shit, only because I don’t want him to think that he can come in and out of my life whenever he pleases. It would be easier, less messy.

I can see the fantasies spinning like little thought bubbles over his blonde hair. No doubt he’s picturing some teary-eyed reconciliation scene, our bodies colliding in slow motion as the soft music soars. Barf.

My mind itches to scorn him the way he scorned me on so many lonely nights. The pathetic truth is, my heart will always have a soft spot for him. After everything we went through together, I'm a moron for it, but how do you forget the person you first thought you loved and gave your whole self to?

My fingers let off my biceps, seeing past the jealousy to the well-meaning guy I once cared for. We shared a formative chapter, but that time has passed. We’re different people now.

“Yeah,” I mutter. “I do.”

It pains me to give him that. But it’s the truth, because despite everything, he still holds a piece of my heart. Our history can’t be erased completely.

What was I supposed to do, lie? I couldn’t just lie to him. I wasn’t a liar. Except now that my truth is out in the open, he seems so pleased as if he’s won when all those painful memories still affect me.

His eyes are shiny as he looks down on me, taking on this revolting, cow-like softness as if my words have somehow vindicated him for all those interminable nights I spent ugly-crying into a pillow.

Congrats dude, you permanently rewired my brain’s pleasure centers to associate your stale cologne with emotional fulfillment. Ya played me good.

I steel myself again. If we were being honest, I might as well get everything off my chest.

“My turn. Can I ask you something?”

Harley nods. “Shoot.”

I take a deep breath and let it out slowly. I don’t want to go down this road, but I need to for myself.

“Do you have any idea how hard it was seeing you with someone else so soon after we broke up?”

“I know,” he mumbles, looking out toward the front lawn, “and I’m sorry.”

“It gutted me,” I press on, making sure he can’t dodge this. “You made me feel so worthless, like I was easily replaceable. And now you’re telling me that you still care about me?” I shake my head. “I don’t know how I’m supposed to forget that. You made me feel shitty about myself, yet you are standing here, trying to warn me off Noah, when he’s been nothing but nice to me and actually makes me like myself a little bit more each day?”

A determined fire burns within me as I take a step closer, my finger jabbing into his chest. Tears sting at the corners of my eyes, but tonight, my makeup is not going to be a casualty. I will not cry any damn longer over this guy.

“When you ruined me.”

“I—”

“Noah,” I declare, my voice cracking like a whip, “Noah actually listens to me. He knows what I like, what matters to me. He makes me feel...” I hesitate, a new feeling dawning from all those heavy wings in my belly. “He makes me feel like I’m not broken.”

Harley’s shoulders slump, and I start to realize many things. Noah makes me feel everything Harley never did. I like having Noah’s attention. More than like it.

I crave it.

He pays such close attention that he knows the little details about me. He remembers my favorite donut from the gas station because he listened when Tyler told him what I liked, put up a Heart poster when I told him they were my favorite band, and gave me his jacket in the garage when I shivered. He recognized the drummer in me when others saw only silence—a revelation lost on Harley. Who seems to believe I have secret dreams of being a fucking singer.

All because he got me confused with Riley.

Noah probably knows the color of my drumsticks and what every doodle I put on there is. He’s woven himself into the fabric of my days without me realizing it, changing the taste of every moment.

“I know what I did was wrong, and I promise, that I know now that I should have gone about it differently,” Harley tries to apologize again, but I’m past caring.

His only purpose in my life was to lead me to Noah. To show me what I didn’t deserve. That I deserve the butterflies-in-my-stomach, talk-for-hours-and-never-get-bored, would-take-a-bullet kind of person.

I think back on wasted Sundays spent curled up with Harley, trying to spark conversation as he zoned out to whatever was blaring on his TV in the living room. I’d gush about scoring a new album, or us signing up for a new Battle of the Bands, hoping for a fraction of his attention. He’d hum, eyes never leaving the screen. He had all of me, but was indifferent to the gift.

I’m a gift goddammit.

“But believe me when I say Noah is just being nice to you,” he continues to insist, “because he wants to use you.”

I rub my temples as I try to gather my thoughts. Harley may have a point there—Noah wasn’t being nice to me because he was an incredibly sweet person. He did want something from me, at first, and now he likes things about me, and Harley doesn’t understand that.

Harley never made me feel special.

Noah does.

My fingers dig harder into my temples. That only makes things more complicated with us.

“You know what? I’m glad you ended things with me,” I declare, locking my hands behind my back. “Noah may be trying to use me, but you know that you used me.”

With that declaration hanging in the air, I pivot sharply, ready to storm away from this painful blast from the past once and for all. As my fingers close around the doorknob, I pause. Glancing back over my shoulder, I meet Harley’s eyes one last time.

“And Harley?”

“Yeah?” His pinched brows look at my empty soul, my cold body, and I realize, he’s not the one I fell in love with. Love shouldn’t feel this easy to give up on.

“I want to be a fucking drummer.”

The truth punctuates the air like an exclamation mark, and so does the sound of the front door slamming behind me.