Page 43 of The Misfit

It’s all a reminder, I tell myself, as I take the shot glass from him and down the bitter clear liquid, letting it blaze a path down my throat.

“How can anyone drink this?” I cough around the burn.

“The more you drink, the less it burns,” Lee states proudly while handing me another shot. Of course I take it, letting the campus bad boy corrupt me one drink at a time.

“Yeah, only because every nerve ending is fried off. Not because it stops burning,” I reply and wrinkle my nose at the next shot before taking it. Immediately, I regret it because it still tastes awful. I can’t believe I used to drink this crap straight from the bottle.

“One more because three is your lucky number.” Lee smirks, and all I can do is shake my head as I pluck the glass from between his fingers.

The alcohol burns a little less this time, and that’s either because of the proud grin Lee gives me or because the nerve endings in my mouth have been reduced to nothing.

“Good girl,” he whispers into my ear. His tongue darts out over his bottom lip to catch a stray drop of vodka. This foreign feeling unfurls in my stomach, and it resembles red-hot desire.

Note to self: Don’t let him call you a good girl. You may spontaneously combust.

Lee and I sit together, people watching for a while. The nearness of his body makes me feel safe and protected, and it’s easier to let go. As the alcohol works its way through my system, altering my senses and judgment, the world around me softens.

Below us, people writhe on the dance floor, their bodies colliding, everyone touching everyone. It’s a nightmare for a girl like me, yet somehow, I wish I could be in the thick of it. They’re all smiling, having the time of their lives, carefree and unaware of all the things that could go wrong.

“How are you feeling, Pantry Girl?” Lee questions, his tone curious.

“Like I shouldn’t drink any more vodka.” I smile back at him. “How are you feeling?”

“Better than ever with you by my side.” He winks, then orders another drink as the server passes by. It strikes me that he’s utterly at home in this environment—confident, authoritarian, at ease. But then, I imagine very few places where he wouldn’t feel like that, or at the very least give that impression.

The very opposite of me.

“Dance with me,” he says suddenly, standing and holding out his sanitized hand.

“I don’t?—”

“Trust me.” His eyes are dark and full of promise. “I’ll keep everyone else away.”

The vodka makes me brave enough to take his hand. I let him lead us to the dance floor, but he doesn’t stop in the crowd. Instead, he creates our own space at the edge, positioning himself between me and any potential contact.

“Breathe. Feel the beat of the music,” he murmurs against my ear. “Nothing else exists. No one else matters.”

He grabs my hips gently but firmly. I should panic. Should count breaths. Should run. I do none of those things. Instead, I lean back against him. The bass thrums through us as he guides my movements, his body a solid wall of heat behind me.

We dance for a while, then one of his hands splays across my stomach, his touch possessive and grounding. The air squeaks past my lips at the sensations he elicits out of me.

“See?” His lips brush my neck. “Not so scary.”

But it is scary.

Because I’m not counting.

Because I’m not thinking about germs.

Because all I can think about is him.

His fingers dig into my hips, and I feel his breath stutter against my neck when I roll back against him. The music pulses through us both, or maybe that’s just my heartbeat thundering in time with his. I swear he emits a low growl against my skin.

“Fuck,” he mutters, one hand sliding up my ribs, hovering just beneath my breast while the other splays possessively across my lower stomach, pulling me tighter against him.

I feel every hard line of his body, including one I definitely shouldn’t be noticing if this were really fake.

The vodka sloshing around inside my belly makes me brave. Makes me arch my back and tangle my fingers in his hair. His hips snap forward in response, and the sound he makes—half growl, half moan—zips through me straight into my core.

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