Page 182 of Wicked Dreams

We’re dancing. I don’t think we’vestoppeddancing.

It’s an excuse to touch Caleb. And to feel his hands on my bare back. Each tiny stroke of his thumb under the edge of my dress, inching closer to my ass, sends sparks through me. It’s dangerous and dirty, and I desperately want him to take me upstairs already.

Tonight has been an exercise in ignoring Amelie and Ian, who always seem to be in the corner of my eye. She came in with a gorgeous black mask that has feathers and jewels, and a tight,tightred dress. Ian matches her: red mask, black-and-red suit.

I wonder if anyone’s compared her to the Queen of Hearts.Off with their heads!

Luckily, Amelie doesn’t have that much power.

Savannah brought a new boy to the dance. His mask obscures too much of his face, but people are whispering. This student body loves to gossip about anyone and everyone.

The slow song ends, and I step away from Caleb.

“Thirsty?” he asks.

I nod, searching for Riley. After a moment, I find her and point. “I’ll be over there.”

He grins. There’s a spot of red lipstick on his lip, and I start to rub it off for him.

He stops me. “Leave it. I like your mark on me.”

Of course he does.

Halfway to Riley’s table, a girl approaches. She grabs my arm and pulls me out of a side door, into a brightly lit hallway. It’s quite the change from the dark ballroom.

“Hey! Let go of me.”

She lifts her mask.

Claire.

“What are you doing here?” I gasp.

She huffs. “Nice seeing you, too, sis.”

“Sorry. I just wasn’t expecting you to crash the party.”

“Yeah, well, I wasn’t expecting you to ignore my phone calls.”

“I’m not. I haven’t got any from you.”

She scowls.

“Seriously. I’d prove it, but my phone is in Caleb’s jacket…”

“I have something important to tell you, Margo.” She takes both of my hands in hers. “I need you to listen to me.”

I focus. “Okay, okay.”

It must be bad if Claire is willing to travel all the way to Rose Hill to tell me something. Bad or good, but my bet is on the former. And as I think that, that Halloween-induced anxiety flutters in my chest.

“I was worried about you,” she said. “And you know how we met your foster mom the other day?”

Last week, at the mall. How could I forget?

My face answers for me.

Claire sighs. “She was familiar—but like, in an ‘I have a bad feeling about this’ kind of way. You know those moments where you just want to follow your gut?”

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