Page 18 of The Order of Disorder
She pulls me into the crowd, and I can’t believe it. I’m away from Billy, from Silas. For the first time in five or six weeks.
She picks up my leash and drapes it casually over my shoulder, leading me by the hand. For the first time since I got back here, it feels good to walk through the crowd. I feel good.
The high from the joint is mellow and steady, like warm honey in my veins. My shoulders aren’t hunched forward, trying to protect me. My mind isn’t screaming. The noise of the party doesn’t assault my senses. Instead, I lean into it—the pulse of the music, the press of the bodies.
Maybe it won’t always be unbearable here. Maybe, night after night, it’ll get easier. Maybe Billy will lose interest eventually. Maybe Rox will stay.
We reach the bar, and Rox slides onto a stool, patting the one beside her. I sit and she flags down Cash, holding two fingers in the air. He starts pouring without even asking what we want.
“I can’t believe Billy let me out of his sight,” I say, smiling, almost dizzy with how happy I feel at this one small sliver of freedom.
She tilts her head, studying me like I’m an unusual find.
“What can I say?” She shrugs. “Being charming pays off.”
I laugh. A real one, small and surprised out of me.
“Youarecharming,” I say, and instantly feel stupid.
But Rox grins. “You’re not so bad yourself.” Her gaze drops to the leash draped across my lap. “Kinda hot in a tragic way.”
I don’t know what to say to that.
Cash slides two drinks in front of us, and Rox lifts her cup in a toast.
“To feeling good,” she says.
“To feeling good.”
We down the shots—more tequila. Rox glances past me and lights up, waving.
“Oh, there’s Maze! Let’s go say hi. He’s gonna love you.”
She takes my hand. I slide off the stool and turn to follow her gaze.
Two men are standing a few feet away, mid-conversation. The one facing Rox—shorter, with shoulder-length hair and a close-cut goatee shot through with gray—lights up when he sees her and waves. Cute face. Nice smile.
The other turns when he follows his friend’s eyes.
Tall. Lean. Broad-shouldered. Screaming skull on the back of his O.D. cut.
Bright blue eyes.
Eyes that lock on mine in the same instant I recognize them.
My whole body goes still.
The bar. The music. The voices. It all drops away.
My breath vanishes in my chest.
Because there’s no way to make sense of what I’m seeing.
It’s Wyatt.
CHAPTER FIVE
NO.
