Page 6 of Revolve
THREE
DYLAN
THE MOMENT WEcross the threshold into Beta Phi, we’re squirted with toy guns filled with paint. The black lights inside the house make the colors glow against my white shirt and stain my jeans. I toss an irritated look at Kian, who forgot to mention this was a neon party. To no one’s surprise, Kian pulls his T-shirt over his head and motions for the girls to cover him with more paint. His tattoos are on full display, and he’s loving the attention they get him. He’s glowing in hot pink and green by the time they’re finished, and when they come to me, I have no choice but to take my shirt off too. The splatter of paint is instant.
The girls are dressed in tiny white skirts and tops, their exposed skin stroked with paint. I vaguely recognize one of them from a party where we found ourselves in a bathroom, and now she paints my hands and places them right on her chest. My two large handprints stamp her bikini top, and she plants her hands on the back of my jeans.
In the kitchen, there’s a line of Jell-O shots, also glowing. A heat of recklessness follows me like a swarm of bees. And I know why it’sthere tonight, and it’s not only because of the captaincy news or the drug test; it’s because I opened the envelope from my parents.
Turns out, it was an invitation to their vow renewal in a few months, which means it’s been planned for a while. My dad knew I would have talked my mom out of it. I would have had a chance to question her and remove whatever veil he’s put over her eyes again. So the same people who I was sure were finally getting divorced a few months ago are getting married. Again. Fucking unbelievable.
Someone yells, “Shotgun!” and hands me a drink, but the instinct to pierce, crack, and chug doesn’t kick in, because I spot Vik Chopra across the room. When our eyes meet, he gives me a look that twists something in my gut.
“I’ll be back,” I tell Kian, who’s barely paying attention because he’s trading friendship bracelets with the Beta Phi girls.
“Any news?” I whisper, pulling Vik back into the dark of the party. Neon green hearts are painted on his cheeks, and he’s got a pink glow stick around his neck.
He shakes his head. “No luck, man. That shit’s secure. I was hoping you’d be here so I could warn you.”
His words act as a poison to my stomach.
“The results are going out tomorrow. I’m sorry, D.”
The physical weight of my life falling apart comes down on me. “Don’t worry about it. I appreciate you for trying.”
Never in my life have I feared consequences. Why would I? When you’re the guy everyone on campus wants to either be with or be like, the rules don’t apply. People look the other way, make excuses, smooth things over for you. But I have a feeling this won’t go away easily. Not without taking everything it can from me.
I need some fucking air.
Someone calls my name, but I don’t turn. Instead, I move into the hallway. My tendency to disappear during parties is far from out of the ordinary. I often get pulled into a bedroom or a bathroom, only to reappear disheveled hours later. I take the stairs two at a time andyank open the first door. The pink bedroom has aTwilighttapestry hanging over the bed and a phallic-shaped lava lamp plugged into the wall. I’m about to close the door, when I hear my name.
“Dylan! Baby!” The girl who painted me barrels past the half-shut door. She pushes me up against a foreign wall, and her lips find my neck. It’s the only spot she manages to reach in heels. “I was hoping you’d be here.”
“Yeah?” I try to getthatpart of me to kick in. The one that can whisper dirty things, lift her with one arm, and pin her against the wall until she’s begging. But I need out, and that’s not what the Dylan she wants would say. I don’t know if I’m willing to part with him just yet. “Let’s get a drink.”
“Or …” She pops open a pink tin with freshly rolled joints. “You liked it last time.”
“Last time?”
She giggles. “Yeah, at Yale. You don’t remember?”
“Right,” I mutter. Clearly it all went downhill after I met her there. The open tin she waves in my face is the last thing I need right now. I pull her off and back away slowly.
I descend the steps, rushing through the house without a second of hesitation. When I’m finally in the hallway leading to the front door, Tyler Sampson stops me with a hand on my chest.
“Whoa, whoa, whoa. Where are you headed, Captain?” he says.
I knew that damn title would haunt me.
Sampson puts a beer in my hand. “Drink up, man. Some of the girls are doing body art.”
Any other night, I’d be all over that. Hell,yesterdayI’d have been all over that, but tonight it feels like I’m being tortured by shit I can’t remember.
“I’m gonna head out,” I say, placing the beer on a table.
Sampson checks his watch. “It’s barely midnight. What’s up with you?”
Before I can give him a half-assed excuse, the front door opens,and it feels like everything stops. The music—Pink Floyd’s “In the Flesh?”—muffles in my ears, and my eagerness to leave dissipates momentarily.
