Page 11 of Beyond the Lines
I can’t help but laugh as I finish getting dressed. These idiots might not understand my art, but they’re still my brothers. And maybe one night out won’t kill me.
But first, I’ve got some shading to fix.
The bass from the party thrums through the soles of my shoes, even from a block away. I’ve got dried paint under my fingernails, and the last thing I want right now is to trade the quiet of my apartment for whatever chaos the frat is cooking up.
“Come on, man.” Mike jogs backward in front of me, his enthusiasm making me want to turn around and head home even more. “It’ll be fun.”
“Your definition of fun needs work.” I sigh. “O’Neil’s is right there. We could shoot pool, drink beer that won’t give us brain damage…”
“Nope.” Linc grabs my shoulder, steering me past the welcoming glow of the bar’s neon sign. “You promised.”
The guilt hits its mark. “Fine.” I sigh as we round the corner onto Greek Row. “But it’s under duress.”
The music gets louder with each step, until we can barely hear each other. As we approach the Victorian monstrosity that houses the frat, I can see the wraparound porch is packed with people, red cups in hand, while more spill onto the front lawn.
But, worst of all, the bass is strong now, some EDM remix that probably started life as a perfectly good song before someone murdered it. “I’m out, guys…”
“Dec.” Mike grabs my arm, pulling me to a stop. “Give us one hour, then you can go home and brood.”
“I don’t brood.”
Both of them stare at me.
“Much,” I add.
“Come on.” Linc starts up the porch steps. “First round’s on me.”
“It’s a frat party,” I point out. “The drinks are free.”
But they’re already dragging me inside, into the press of bodies and the deafening music. The old house’s interior is exactly what you’d expect from a bunch of college guys living together—mismatched furniture, suspicious stains on the carpet, and what looks like a traffic cone being used as a hat rack.
We push through to the kitchen where, sure enough, there are several trash cans full of something that glows an unnatural shade of blue. I watch a guy ladle some into a cup, and the liquid actually leaves a trail of luminescence through the air.
“That can’t be legal,” I say to Mike.
He grins and grabs three cups. “Only one way to find out.”
“Pass.” I wave off the cup he tries to hand me. “I choose life.”
“Your loss.” He takes a big gulp and immediately starts coughing. “Holy shit.”
“Smooth?”
“Like lighter fluid.” Mike laughs. “But pain is weakness leaving the body.”
I’m about to explain the logical fallacy when Mike suddenly straightens beside me, his attention locked on something—or someone—across the room. I follow his gaze to see a group of girls by the sliding glass door, and even in the dim light I can tell his focus is on the tall blonde in the center.
“Dude,” Mike says, nudging me with his elbow. “Check her out.”
“I’d rather not,” I say.
“Come on, man. When was the last time you hooked up with someone?”
I snort. “When was the last time you had a relationship that lasted a week?”
He winces. “Low blow.”
“Truth hurts.” I laugh.
