Page 8 of College-Virgin & Dark Bully Next-Door

“Don’t.” I hold up the drink and down it. “I will do a shot before I discuss anything related tothat.” Not really a that – a him. But I shake my head. “He knows this house—this party is off-limits.”

“Yeah, but his asshole brother doesn’t, though.” Bonnie jerks her head toward a blond guy with tousled hair who’d just stopped by the juice bar. She catches my glare and raises her hands. “I didn’t invite him. Hand to God.”

My fists curl into my cover up as said asshole – Peter – takes his drink from the bartender, moves off, spots me, then stops, gaping. With a wicked gleam on his face, he comes looking me over with a long whistle. “Damn. Sky Bennett, is that you?”

I try to grab for the pillow, but that’s a hollow dream. Obviously. It’s gone, just like any chance of me avoiding this conversation. I adjust my hair, so it better covers my breasts and try to cover my belly with my arms.

“You grew up. Not the girl next door anymore, are you?”

I glance at Bonnie, and she narrows her eyes. Peter hasn’t been nice since we were twelve. I don’t know what changed. We were friends, and then he hated me with a burning passion. An overnight flip. He started shoving me, calling me names and picking up on every insecurity. Not to mention the ultimate sin he committed against me.

“Who knew you could be hot under all that weird?” He snorts. “Almost makes up for the resting bitch face.”

“Funny, you being drunk almost makes up for the lack of personality,” I bite back.

“If only I didn’t know you, I might be interested. Then you go and open your mouth.” He shakes his head, tsking. “You should only open it for a dick to go in.”

Bonnie flies up from the lounge chair. “You filthy piece of shit—”

“No.” I grab her arm. “He’s not worth it, Bon.”

Peter chuckles at me. “Must be nice having a guard dog to defend you, huh?”

“Fuck all the way off.” Bonnie swings her hand toward my side gate. “You weren’t invited, and you’re trespassing.”

“Call the cops. Report me. Oh—no, you can’t.” With a smirk, he walks away.

Bonnie glowers at me as Peter gets lost in the crowd. “I wish you’d stand up to that guy already. He’s gotten away—still getting away with murder, you know.”

“I told you, he’s not worth it.” My voice sounds calm, but inside I’m seething. Bonnie’s right. I should bring him down a peg or two, especially after what he did to me two years ago.

“Hey.” Bonnie jiggles my arms. “Let’s put those thoughts of Peter in the trash where they—and he—belongs.” She points over to where a group of girls from our gym glass are dancing nearby. “You get along with Giselle and her gang, don’t you?”

“If by ‘getting along,’ you mean they’ve never teased me about the baggy clothes I wear, then, yeah, I guess.”

“Great. Come on.”

It takes time to shake off Peter’s comment, but Bonnie gets me awkwardly dancing with the other girls. We enjoy each other. And for a few happy minutes, I lose myself in the music and the fun. But it’s just too much when a few guys get involved, especially when one of them zones in on me, his body brushing my ass. Too much going on, too many people to watch out for.

I shake my head at Bonnie and move off before she can stop me. I walk around the side, open the fence door and then slip along, nearly brushing the fence, when more people come in. Older people, definitely not eighteen-year-olds. I ignore that, just like I ignored the fact that the bartender is definitely serving alcohol from behind that makeshift counter. I press myself to the concrete wall of the house in the dark, trying to catch my breath.

Too many people, too much potential chaos. This is why I’ve never done parties. My backyard is like a writhing pile of snakes like I’ve seen on TV. A bunch of horny people, alcohol, and little clothing. Bad things are going to happen. We’ll be lucky if the police aren’t called. And I can’t forget all the “what ifs.”

Deciding to sneak back inside through the front door, I hurry along the side of the house. The roar of a car engine jerks my attention to the driveway next door. A dark car pulls up, its bright headlights beaming on the patio.

My body pauses as the headlights dim to nothing. I stare at the driver’s door. Why am I staring at the driver’s door? Why am I still standing here, anyway? I should be consistent with what I’ve been doing since he moved back here two weeks ago. I should keep hiding from him—

No, not hiding.Avoidinghim.

Yes, that’s better.

Radioheadplays on full blast, the souped-up Mustang bouncing as he keeps pressing the brakes. I will myself to move, but it’s like I’m transfixed. Somewhere deep below lies the shameful awareness that I actually want him to see me.

It’s crazy.

I’m crazy.

I should move.

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