Chapter 18
RAF
The boathouse is packed so tight you can’t even see the fucking floor.
Half the school turned out for the Cherry Pop Party– even with final exams breathing down their necks, nobody’s willing to miss out on the biggest spectacle of the year.
There’s a mean pulse to the place, every surface washed in red LED light, the air saturated with the sugar-tang of cherry liquor and cheap champagne.
It’s a full-blown fuckfest in the making, and from my spot on the couch in the loft, I’ve got the best seat in the house.
Ford is in his element. I don’t think I’ve ever seen him this dialed in– he’s worked the crowd all night like he’s channeling Wes, bouncing between beer pong, the vodka luge, and the DJ booth in back without missing a beat.
The playlist is pure pop trash, but it gets people grinding so hard the entire main floor vibrates underneath them.
Nobody here gives a shit about taste. They care about being seen, being wanted, being talked about tomorrow like they mattered for one night before everything resets.
And then there’s Ava.
She’s the only thing in the room brighter than the lights.
It’s not just the stupid shirt Ford made her wear– a tight white cropped tank with glittery cherries positioned right over her nipples– or the short red plaid skirt she paired with it.
Or even the white knee socks, which make her legs look twice as long.
It’s her. The way her dark hair falls in soft waves around her shoulders, the blood-red lipstick, the flush in her cheeks from dancing.
The way she moves like she belongs in the center of it all.
Like she owns the room.
People track her without even realizing they’re doing it, heads turning, conversations stalling. She’s the main event, whether she asked for it or not, and she’s taken to it like a fish to water.
She should still be pissed at us for the flyer.
For turning her into a walking billboard and making her first time a goddamn public event.
Instead, she’s smiling like she’s in on the joke, like she’s the host and everyone here came at her own personal request. I’m not sure if she’s turned over a new leaf or if she’s just playing us, but if it’s an act, it’s fucking Oscar-worthy.
I lean back, taking in the scene with a tumbler of bourbon in hand.
This is all supposed to be strategy; our genius plan to nuke the Dollhouse auction and leave no question that Ava’s ours.
In all the scenarios I ran in my head, I never pictured it being…
fun. Not just for everyone else, but for me.
Things have been so fucking dark lately, but tonight, it almost feels like none of the other shit matters.
The weight that’s been sitting on my chest has eased, the noise in my head has quieted, the shadows are nowhere to be found.
All that’s left is the music and the sweat and the promise of how this night ends.
On the dance floor, Ava’s got both my boys wrapped around her– Wes behind, Ford in front, their hands finding easy excuses to brush over her arms, her hips, the bare stretch of her midriff.
They’re all over her, but she’s not pulling away or playing shy.
She’s winding her body between them like she’s conducting the whole thing, head thrown back in a laugh that makes Wes’ eyes go soft and Ford answer with one of his own.
The sight of it hits me harder than expected.
It shouldn’t. If anything, this was always the expectation.
The three of us, one girl, everyone else knowing she’s untouchable except by us.
But lately, there’s been a weird shift. The old rivalry keeps creeping back in, flaring up every time Ava’s in the room.
Wes trying to act like he’s the steady, sensitive boyfriend, Ford clowning his way into her pants, and me, apparently, the moody bastard who spends more time watching than participating.
My jaw tightens slightly as I track the way Wes’ hands settle more firmly on her hips, the way Ford leans in close, saying something that makes her laugh again.
I could change that. I should. I’m tired of being an observer. There’s no point in sitting this out– not anymore, and especially not tonight.
I toss back the last of my bourbon, letting the burn ground me before I push to my feet, setting the empty glass down on the side table.
Decision made.
I start for the stairs, already focused, already shifting gears. Except when I reach the bottom, I get cut off.
A guy steps into my path, sweat already soaking the collar of his red polo shirt. “Hey, uh, Raf?” he says nervously. “We have a situation at the door.”
“Define situation,” I growl, the coldness in my voice making his spine stiffen instantly.
He bobs his head, glancing back over his shoulder like he’s hoping the problem disappeared in the last three seconds. “Chelsea Carson,” he replies. “She’s, uh… insisting we let her in. Says you’ll vouch for her.”
Of course.
Of fucking course.
Chelsea has always been the most persistent leech in the pond, and now that she’s been publicly booted from the inner circle, she’ll do whatever it takes to crawl back in.
I flick the guy a look that says to lead the way, and he scurries ahead, the crowd parting for me on instinct.
I’m tall enough to see over most people’s heads, and it doesn’t take long to spot Chelsea planted on the other side of the glass doors, her platinum hair glossy and perfect, black dress so tight it looks like it was painted on.
She’s mid-rant, snapping at the guy blocking the door, face tinged red with fury and eyes sparkling with the high of a fresh argument.
That look used to do it for me.
Now, it just looks cheap.
When she sees me, the shift in her is so sharp it’s almost impressive. The anger disappears, replaced by a sugary smile that slips into place like a mask she’s worn too many times.
“Oh, thank god. Raf!” she calls, her voice pitched just high enough to slice through the music. “These assholes are acting like I’m some rando. Can you please explain to them that I’m a guest of the Kings?”
I step forward, shouldering the door guy aside and taking his place, arms folded. “You’re not a guest, Chels,” I reply coldly. “You’re a liability. Go home.”
She just stares at me for a second, stunned.
I can see the moment she almost lets the mask slip all the way, but she catches herself, pulling it back together with a tight smile.
“Come on, it’s me,” she says softly, like we’re sharing a private joke.
“Don’t be a dick.” She leans in, her perfume wafting through the gap in the door, all synthetic florals and undertones of desperation.
“I brought a bottle of Macallan,” she adds, lifting it between us like it’s leverage.
“Leave,” I say flatly.
She blinks, fingers tightening around the neck of the bottle. “You can’t be serious.”
I hold her gaze. “Do I look like I’m joking?”
Chelsea lets out a sharp little laugh, shaking her head. “You’re such a fucking asshole.”
I shrug.
She tries again, lowering her lashes, reaching for something that used to work. “This isn’t fair,” she hisses through clenched teeth. “We had a deal.”
“No, we didn’t,” I scoff. “You were fun for a while, but you’re fucking poison, Chels. Move on. I have.”
The words hit their target. Her lips thin, the gloss shining wet in the party lights. “You’re disgusting, you know that?” she spits. “She’s your sister.”
“Step-sister,” I correct. “And this isn’t about her.”
She opens her mouth to fire back, but then she breaks. Tears start spilling instead, streaking her mascara before she whips around and bolts into the night.
I turn away, slapping the door guy on the shoulder. “She gets in, I take your skin,” I warn.
He nods so fast it’s almost comical.
When I pivot back around, I catch a glimpse of Ava on the dance floor.
She’s still sandwiched between Ford and Wes, their hands all over her, but her eyes are tracking me across the room.
There’s a split second where noise and bodies blur, and it’s just the two of us, locked in tight.
She holds my gaze a second longer than necessary before she looks away and resumes dancing, breaking the spell.
The crowd peels back as I move through it, bodies shifting out of my path without being asked.
Nobody wants to get shoulder-checked by the King with a tendency for violence, especially when I’m on a fucking mission.
By the time I make it to the center of the dance floor, I’ve forgotten all about Chelsea’s tantrum. She doesn’t matter. Never did.
“There he is!” Ford calls out, grinning as he throws a fist out for me to bump.
I ignore it, my focus landing on Ava instead.
She turns toward me, her expression open in a way I haven’t seen it before. Unguarded, almost… fuck, almost happy.
“You’re late,” she teases, wiggling her fingers at me.
“Had some shit to handle,” I mutter.
Wes grabs Ava by the hips and pulls her closer, pinning her back to his chest. She lets it happen, her arms going up around his neck as she rocks in time to the beat of the music.
Her skirt shifts with the movement, riding higher on her thighs, and the urge to slide my hand up underneath it nearly floors me.
Ford catches my look and smirks as he looks between us. “Don’t let the big bad wolf scare you, Ava baby,” he drawls, voice loud enough to carry. “He only gets growly when he’s jealous.”
“Jealous of what?” I ask, my tone cooling as I meet his gaze. “Not like either of you can satisfy her.”
Ava snorts, shaking her head like we’re both idiots. “You’re all talk, Raf.”
“Prove it,” Ford cuts in, sliding his hand down her side until it settles on her ass. He squeezes, just hard enough to make her wince.
She laughs it off, turning her head to look at me over her shoulder. “Gonna let him get away with that?” she asks, eyes bright with challenge.