Page 176 of Wrath

"What?" I laugh.

"Oh c'mon. You never heard it called that?" He leans down, so we're at eye level. "You're a virgin, aren't you?"

I look down and draw myself away from him. I shake my head.

"Well, shit. It didn't go well?" He's loud—talking over the music.

I put my finger over my lips and shake my head.

"That's right. Miller's a shy boy," he says.

"No I'm not. You're just loud as fuck."

He mimes a lasso, swinging his hips to the country music they've got blaring right now.

I put my head in my hand, shaking it. Jenna met this dude when she did orientation back in April. He was her group leader. He had on rainbow shoes, so she got his number for me. Like all gays should automatically be friends.

When I moved into my new apartment about a week and a half ago, Jenna pushed me to text the guy. So I did. He was at my place in like two hours, helping me unpack my boxes. He came by with sub sandwiches, plus two of his also-gay friends. Within two days, I was coming out to everybody who seemed safe. Pretty fucking crazy.

A few days back, Daniel saw my Snapchat—I guess he got it from Jenna the Betrayer—and he weaseled me into running thesocial media for the LGBTQ+ student group. So now I'm doing two Snapchats, and also two Instagrams.

Daniel gets out on the dance floor, and I look down at my phone. Maybe I'll snap the olives at the bottom of my martini. Jack and Cokes my ass. Motherfucker’s definitely drunk if he mistook this martini for a Jack and Coke.

I snap the olives, throw a filter on, and then hold two fingers up at the bartender, letting him know I want more when he can. Daniel and Finn, his—our—friend, can dance all night if they want. I'm not made for dancing.

I'm made for the bar stools.

I'm smiling to myself when a low voice says, "Hello there."

It sounds like a radio announcer, so at first I'm confused.

I look up, frowning, at...whoa—this hot, hot guy. He's on the bar stool by mine.

"I saw you," he says in a soft and low voice, holding a phone up. "On Snapchat." He arches a brow.

I'm too confused to do anything but frown. Which makes him laugh. He has a nice laugh—soft and husky.

"You're pretty cute, JMills555. Does the 555 mean what I think it does?"

"What's that?" I manage, as the bartender swaps my empty for a new martini.

"It means you want to be anonymous." He smiles, making his eyes crinkle. "Everybody knows 555 is the fake TV area code."

"How did you find me on there?" I ask, trying not to check him out. He's fucking gorgeous. He's as beautiful as Ezra, but with different features.

My stomach pitches from the mere sound of that name in my brain. I fix my gaze on the guy beside me, my eyes ping-ponging from the blingy diamond necklace just above the neckline of his meshy Nike shirt to his Hollywood face. He's got a California look, with high, full cheekbones, thick-lashed hazel eyes, darkbrows, and thick lips. His hair is buzzed short on the sides and long and gold blond up top.

"You checkin' me out, JMills?" He gives me a wolfish grin and tilts his head back, waving a hand at his thicc, delicious throat. I notice his nails are black as he runs a finger over his Adam's apple. "People like this," he says. There's a wicked glint in his eye.

"Who are you?" I blurt.

He gives me a high-gloss smile, tilting his head to the side like he's posing for the camera. "Who do you think?"

God, his voice is so seductive. Like...the perfect timbre. Except Ezra's.

I falter at my thought, and he gives me another coy smile. "Why don't we go talk in the back? I know a little darkroom."

The look he gives me has my heart stuffed up into my throat.

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