Page 82 of Fake Game

“Come on,” she whines. “Even Stevie said she’d come, and she’s been holed up in her place all week prepping for that art show.”

“That’s great! Means you don’t need me.”

“No, because Aleks is also coming, and that means that even though she says she’s going to keep me company, those two will end up abandoning me to go bang in a closet or something.”

“Not if you ask her nicely.”

“Deer, pleeease.”

“Fine.”

Crap. I hadn’t meant to say that.

I’m not sure how much social battery I have left. I am already emotionally exhausted from having to play a role for Jackson’s family. If I have to go to the party tonight, it means switching myself on for another couple of hours.

“Thanks, you’re the best. I’ll be over in like two hours, and then we can all catch a ride to the party together, okay?”

“Okay.”

“Love you.”

“Love you, too.”

TWENTY-TWO

DEER

“Shots for everyone!” Parker stands on a pool table holding a bottle of very expensive vodka. At least twenty people crowd around him, and he begins pouring the liquid into their mouths.

“Sydney is so going to murder him,” I mutter to myself.

Myself, because I have been abandoned. Or, almost abandoned.

Stevie and Aleks are making out on the couch in front of me; the pretty brunette is straddling her boyfriend while their tongues decide to see how far down each other’s throats they can go.

Sydney is going to murder them as well.

And as for the lady of the hour? Well, Lee is chatting with a group of lifestyle creators who intimidate the hell out of me. Granted, she keeps glancing back my way, giving me a not-so-subtle thumbs-up to check in every twenty or so minutes. But that’s beside the point.

This sucks.

There are too many people, and I am still too sober.

Three shots have done nothing but level out my nerves and put me on the same plane as a normal person.

“Deer!” Parker’s British accent draws out the vowels. “Come over here!” He waggles the bottle of liquor.

I don’t really want to drink from the communal well of Copper Wolf vodka—even if the bottle is made from crystal.

I swipe my hand in front of my neck, making a cutting motion as I call out, “No thanks.”

He pouts because only Parker Covington can make pouting look attractive. But before he can sucker me into taking a shot like I know he will—because I seriously have an issue saying no to people—I push up from my safe little nest in the corner of the room and weave my way through the crowd.

There are way more people here than I expected, and it seems impossible to get anywhere without someone’s body touching my own. It’s a sensory overload. Especially with all the flashing lights from people taking selfies and videos. This whole party is just a bunch of people trying to use each other to get a leg up in the world. They’re wondering whose ladder rung they can step on next to push themselves higher. No judgement on them, it’s a tough world out there. I’m just not interested in it.

I spot the door to one of the back rooms and push my way through the throng of bodies until my hand has enough space to reach out and grasp the handle. I push down and practically hurtle my body through the door.

I instantly regret my choice as I watch a guy snort a line of coke off some chick’s cleavage.

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