Page 25 of They're Watching You

“Special brew, special brew,” I mutter, turning the bottles. “Here.” This silver bottle is the smallest on the shelf. “Must be strong stuff.” I grab it and pass it off to Remington.

He takes it, his fingers lingering on mine. His face is only inches above mine in this small space, his breath warm on my forehead. He smells like rich people—some mixture of cedar and leather, with a hint of orange peel. Normally, the scent makes my nose wrinkle, but right now all I want to do is drink it up.

And my hand is still clutched in his. His light flicks off, his jacket swishing as he returns the phone to his pocket. Though I can’t see him, I know he’s dangerously close.

“So, what happened out there with Donella?” I squeak out, my attempt at sounding casual failing miserably.

“She slapped me.”

“Really?”

He laughs. “No, but she should’ve. We were slow dancing, and I thought I’d unclasped her necklace. So I yanked on it. Only it was still clasped.”

“Ouch.” I wince, rubbing my neck. Still, I can’t help but feel a sweep of relief. He was slow dancing with Donella, not whatever it was I’d imagined happening in that dim corner.

“Mmhmm. You can say she figured out something was off at that point. See, I was right.” His breath rustles my hair. “You were definitely the better distraction. It should’ve been you all along.”

That effervescence is back, pushing my spirits higher.It should’ve been you. I can’t help but wonder if he’s referring to more than just our stupid linchpin-stealing plan. I shift, my back pressing into the wall, wondering if he’ll move with me.

He does. His free hand runs along my shoulder, sending chills all the way down to my hips. I shut my eyes, trying not to tremble with nerves.

“Tonight’s been fun,” he says softly. “Couldn’t have asked for a better partner.” Maybe we should just crack open the bottle of society brew and stay in this closet, which is definitely, positively magical.

“Same,” I say, stupidly, thoughts focused on what he’s about to do next.

“So, funny story. But back in Form I…”

“Yeah?” I say because I might die if he doesn’t spit it out.

He laughs. “Nothing. It’s—we should probably hurry up and do this, before another team beats us to it.”

“Mmhmm,” I murmur before I realize “do this” meansspike the punch, not whatever I’d been fantasizing. My hopes slide down, ending up somewhere beneath me on the floor. “Let’s hope we can get out of here unseen.”

He releases my hand to tuck the bottle inside his jacket, then peeks out through the seam. Straightening again, he runs his fingers through his curls. “There’s no other way out?”

“None that I’ve found.”

“Okay. Here goes nothing.”

With a push, he slips out the door. I slouch against the right wall for support, my heart hammering in my chest. Someone had to have seen the football player walk out of the wall.

“All clear,” he calls, knocking a fist against a stationary section of drywall.

Holding my breath, I squeeze through the opening, which flaps shut behind me.

I breathe again. Everyone is moving and bouncing to an upbeat song my parents probably loved in high school. Nobody is looking at us.

It’s my turn to play lookout now as we make our way to the refreshments table. Fortunately, only a small group of Form II girls is gathered there. I sort of wish I had the bottle, so Remington could be the distraction. I have a feeling whatever charm was mystically bestowed upon me during the last task has been all used up. But Remington is the one with the coat. This task is up to me.

“Oh my gosh,” I say, coming up alongside the girls. “Do you see that?” I point to Gavin, who happens to be tagging a corner of the banquet hall floor with a can of spray paint. “What is that guy doing?”

“Oh wow,” pipes up a girl with an intricate braided updo. “That’s like…vandalism, right? We should go tell someone.” They scurry off, and guilt pricks at my gut for sacrificing Gavin.

“Still watching?” Remington rasps, handing me a cup of punch. Liquid sloshes as he starts to pour himself some of the untainted juice.

My back to him, I survey the room again. “Do it now.” My hand shakes as I sip the punch, keeping an eye on passersby. A boy a few yards away makes a drinking gesture at his date, and they turn toward us. “Hurry up,” I mutter into my cup. Then I crane my neck to watch him lean his elbow onto the table, letting his coat spread as he tips the contents of the bottle discreetly into the bowl. He gives it a quick stir with the ladle before tugging his jacket shut over the empty bottle.

“Done,” he announces, joining me with a punch cup in hand. We allow the thirsty couple to pass us and wander over to rest against a wall.

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