Page 36 of The Party Plot

He imagined driving across the country, leaving Laurel here, alone, in this characterless room, and a pit opened up in his stomach.

“You’re right,” Laurel said, and Casey felt even worse. “It was a stupid idea. And it—it wasn’t for my mom. My friend Melody, she hasn’t been doing great for a while now.”

“Right.” Casey remembered Miss Mina in the kitchen, saying,Howie Bonard sucked all the life out of that girl.“She has history with Howie Bonard, doesn’t she? Was that why you got in a fight with him?”

Laurel scratched his nose, turning red. “It wasn’t a fight, not really. But yeah.”

“What did he do?” Casey asked, but really, he could guess. The story was always the same. Men like Howie Bonard always wanted to be with beautiful women, but they didn’t treat them well, or even seem to like them very much.

“According to everyone around here? Nothing.” Laurel set out a long, exhausted sigh. “You heard my mom. ‘Girls like that grow up fast.’ The whole town thinks she was asking for it. But in reality, he groomed her, got her into drugs and shit. Controlled her and messed with her head for years. She got away for a little bit in college, but then she dropped out and went right back to him.”

Casey said nothing, keeping his face neutral. He knew about addicts, after all.

“A while ago, she finally broke up with him for good. Tried to sue for emotional damages. But it went nowhere, and she’s completely ostracized because of him and his family. But she’s going to get a restraining order, so he won’t be able to torment her anymore. And I thought—I don’t know. I thought that maybe if she showed up at the party, it would prove everyone wrong, you know? Show that he’s the bad guy, and that she deserves to be here.”

“Right.” Casey felt a little pang of—something. Sympathy, maybe, or embarrassment that Laurel could somehow manage to be so optimistic. Restraining orders weren’t magic, and parties didn’t get people clean. He’d seen the bruises on Melody’s legs at the dog wedding, the way she had stumbled across the lawn. The glassy look in her eyes at the Fourth of July Jamboree. “You were going to drop one hundred and fifty thousand dollars just so that your friend could, what, have a moment?”

Laurel gave him a sheepish smile. “I’m not known for making good decisions.”

“No shit. Is she even—” Casey chewed his lip, trying to be delicate. “Does she know that you’re planning this? And would she even be up for it?”

“She does, but you’re right, it’s a stupid idea.” Laurel sighed, running a hand through his hair. “I guess it wasn’t just about her. I panicked a little when you said you’d forgotten me. Wanted any excuse to make you stick around.”

Casey heard himself make a little noise. He wasn’t sure if it was a laugh or a sigh. His palms were sweaty, and he went to wipe them on his shirtfront before realizing one was still covered in donut crumbs. “I don’t really know what to say to that.”

“You don’t have to say anything. And you don’t have to stay, either. I’ll understand.”

Something was bubbling under Casey’s skin. He couldn’t identify it, wasn’t sure if he felt guilty or nervous or pleased. His heart still hadn’t slowed down. “Why did you approach me that night in Vegas? What were you thinking?”

“I don’t know,” Laurel said softly. “You stood out. It seemed like maybe you had something I needed. What wereyouthinking?”

Casey studied him, his warm brown eyes, his open, honest face. The spattering of freckles across his cheeks. Any other night, Casey wouldn’t have been there. He didn’t gamble, or drink much. But he’d been on his way out of California with a lot of money, and he had wanted to see what a real casino was like. He’d wanted to do something reckless and extravagant.

And he had, even though he hadn’t ended up betting a single chip. That night had only been about Laurel, the white-hot connection between their bodies and the sounds he’d made and the lost, helpless look of pleasure on his face.

Casey cleared his throat. “That I wanted you. And maybe that I hated you a little.”

“Do you still hate me?” Laurel’s stricken, needy expression was almost too much to bear, but Casey didn’t look away.

“No,” he admitted.

“Do you still want me?”

Casey felt his heart thud in his chest, the soles of his feet tingling. His gaze dropped, intentionally, to Laurel’s lips. “I think I’ve made it pretty obvious what I want.”

There was a rustle of upholstery as Laurel leaned forward, and then he had shoved the coffee table out of the way and was on his knees in front of the couch, sucking Casey’s fingers deep into his mouth, cleaning the sugar off them one-by-one, the scrape of his teeth and the hot insistence of his tongue eclipsing everything else in the room. Casey’s vision went fuzzy at the edges and his skin felt hot and too tight, his thighs tensing up, his other hand coming to rest on the flushed nape of Laurel’s neck as Laurel kissed his palm, his knuckles, the throbbing pulse point in his wrist, lush, lingering kisses that made his nerves sing with pleasure. Casey traced the line of Laurel’s part, the curve of his ear. He could hear rain peppering the window, the rush of the surf outside, or maybe it was the rush of the blood in his head.

“I have condoms this time,” Laurel murmured against Casey’s skin, making the hairs on his arm stand up.

“Aren’t you a good little boy scout.” Somehow Casey kept his voice level. He cupped Laurel’s face, raising his chin so that he could look down at him. Laurel’s cheeks were strawberry-red, his lips plush and wet. Casey traced a thumb over the scattered constellations of his freckles, feeling the heat radiating from his skin. “So prepared.”

“But not too presumptuous, I hope.”

“Just presumptuous enough.” He brushed a strand of hair off Laurel’s forehead. God, it was impossible not to be fond of him, the way his face betrayed his feelings, his big stupid words and his big stupid heart and the way he was looking at Casey right now as if he could unlock the world. “Come here.”

Laurel settled over him, Casey falling back against the couch cushions. Their lips came together lazily, the taste of cinnamon sugar washing over Casey’s palate as Laurel’s tongue stroked his, followed by the bite of whatever he’d been drinking, a spark of fire against the sweetness. It felt good to touch him, to explore all the parts of Laurel that he had missed, to take his time rediscovering the spots that made him tremble. The way he moaned when Casey sucked on his lower lip and the way he gasped helpless curses into Casey’s mouth as Casey’s fingers found one of his nipples, teasing and pinching through the thin fabric of his shirt. The way he smelled, salt and earthy sweetness, the solid feel of his hip in Casey’s hand, his hip, which was—

Buzzing, his hip was buzzing. Casey fumbled in Laurel’s pocket, pulling out his phone. The screen was still shattered, he noticed, with a pleased little thrill. The name was barely readable, but it seemed like only one person ever called Laurel at the worst possible times.

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