Page 1 of Twisted Collide

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DANE, 18

This is notthe best party of the year.

This isn’t even the best party of the month.

Despite the blatant false advertisement, Nick followed through on the endless booze. It leaches from every inch of the living room, wafting up from the couch I’m sulking on.

Coach will kick Nick off the team the minute he finds out about the party—he always does—and he will be out.

It doesn’t help that the “small” gathering spiraled out of control fast. I don’t know half these people.

In front of me, some chick I’ve never seen catches her boyfriend cheating. She winds back her arm, a red Solo cup clutched tight, and launches the stale beer at him.

Of course, she misses.

Of course, it lands on me.

And that’s my cue to leave.

I make my way up the stairs to wash it off. Technically, Nick announced earlier that his room is off-limits. But technically, Idon’t give a fuck. I protect him on the ice. If he wants that to continue, he’ll shut the fuck up.

It’s quieter up here and much more tolerable. The hall mutes the music downstairs enough to make out words coming from somewhere nearby.

Nick will lose his shit when he discovers that someone other than me came up here.

I’m about to dip into his room when I hear it.

“Get off me.”

I freeze, wondering if I heard it wrong.

Then, she says it again, and I’m taking off in the direction of the voice. I prowl down the hall, unable to make out who or where she is.

“Get off me!”

The cracked voice sounds too much like fear to ignore.

The thumping bass quakes the floor beneath me. The assholes downstairs are all too drunk to notice anything.

I strain to listen again, but it’s just far enough away that I’m not sure if I’ll be able to.

Eyes narrowed, I peer around the space, but the hazy smoke blurs my vision.

Can’t hear. Can’t see.Just fucking great.

Best guess—it’s coming from a bedroom nearby. The problem is, Nick’s parents are filthy rich, which means there are half a dozen on this floor alone.

My instincts lead me toward the north wing. The closer I get, the more I’m certain the plea wasn’t my imagination. With each step, the telltale signs of a struggle rise. Muffled shrieks. Soft thuds. Heavy grunts.

The second I identify it, I toss open the door.

It takes half a second for the scene to sink in and another half for me to react. I fly across the room faster than I would on skates and land a punch right at the asshole’s elbow.

He releases the fist that’s wrapped around the hair of a girl Idon’t recognize. His free hand, working its way beneath her underwear, falls with his shock. She slumps down the wall, free from his hold, and scrambles across the carpet in the opposite direction.

“What the fuck?” the asshole barks, but I don’t answer.

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