For a long moment, he just stares at me in silence. It’s like he’s wondering what to do next, what to say, how to get around me. And then he shakes his head, runs a damp hand through his hair, and breathes, “You don’t get it.”
I want to ask him what it is that I don’t get, but he gently shoves me to the side and wrenches open the door. He slips out, slamming it shut behind him. I’m furious, and if I hadn’t been humiliated the last time I went outside and interrupted him, then perhaps I would do it again. But I know it’s pointless to go out there, so I storm back through to the front of the house and take a moment to think about what I’m going to do.
“Eden? What the hell are you doing here?”
I spin around in the direction of the voice, and I am utterly stunned and completely grateful to find Jake standing behind me, his lips parted as he stares at me. “Jake! I came with Tyler, but he’s…well, he’s pissing me off.”
“Eden…” He places a hand to his forehead and steps closer to me, leaning in by my ear as he lowers his voice. “You know this is a stoner party, right?”
“A what?” I blurt, and he tells me with his eyes that I need to shut up, so I bite my lip.
“Look around you, Eden,” he whispers, his breath hot on my skin. “Everyone’s high.”
My eyes slowly drift around the hall, to the open door of the living room. Tyler was right. These people aren’t bored. Their eyes are all bloodshot and dilated, half of them staring at the ceiling while the rest laugh hysterically. The longer I watch them, the more it becomes obvious. A stoner party. Tyler really brought me to a damn stoner party.
“What are you doing here then?” I demand, folding my arms in disgust.
“Friend of mine needed a ride home,” Jake explains, narrowing his eyes as he searches our surroundings. “I came to get him but looks like he already got his ass outta here. Which is something you should really do. Eden, these aren’t the kind of people you want to hang out with.”
“Please get me out of here,” I whisper, my eyes wide. “I can’t believe he brought me here.”
“He’s an asshole, that’s why.”
Funny. Tyler said the exact same thing about him. It’s their word against each other’s, and it’s up to me to choose whose side I’m going to be on. And right now, it’s Jake’s. Because if I had to decide which one of them was the asshole, I would have to point to my stepbrother.
Chapter 11
I can’t help but feel furious that Tyler genuinely thought it was a good idea to invite me along to a stoner party. Did he really think I’d have a good time with a bunch of people sitting around getting high? It was miles away from a good idea, and I wondered why Tyler even invited me. What was he thinking? Was he thinking?
Jake is less stupid. He’s got enough brain cells to know what’s good and what’s bad, and it’s because of this that I’ve ended up in the passenger seat of his car. And wanting to hurl my fist through the windshield.
“I’m actually supposed to meet Dean in fifteen minutes,” says Jake, glancing at me with a sort of bummed expression in his eyes. “You can come hang with us or I can take you home. Choice is yours.”
The idea of going back home after being stuck inside all day alone doesn’t strike me as fun, and right now all I really need is some decent, non-drug-related human company. And thankfully, Dean is sweet. “Are you sure it’s okay if I come with you?”
“Sure it is,” he says. “Nice choice.”
I heave a sigh as my body cools down a little, and I sink into the seat and adjust the air-conditioning. It’s easier to feel relaxed in Jake’s car than it is in Tyler’s, simply because I don’t feel like I’m on the verge of death each time we turn a corner. “Who were you looking for?”
“Dawson Hernandez,” he says, and I’m not sure why I even asked. I don’t know anyone here. “Sophomore. I gotta watch out for him.”
“Where are we meeting Dean?” I ask, changing the subject, hoping to forget about this wonderful stoner party. The more I think about it, the more I feel sick.
“Some band he likes—La Breve Vita?—is playing a free gig downtown. We’re gonna check it out.”
Admittedly, I’ve never heard of this band either. But given that they’re playing a free show, they must be pretty unknown. “Okay,” I say. “Sounds good.”
It doesn’t take us long to hit the busy downtown nightlife of Santa Monica on a Saturday evening, and the club signs are electric, the music loud, the people drunk, the prostitutes plentiful. We pull up in a small parking lot around the back of an even smaller building, and I can’t quite figure out if it’s a club or a bar or a restaurant or a weed dispensary. Either way, we head inside.
The room looks like someone’s basement, and is dim and crowded and stuffy and hot. There’s a tiny stage, and on this tiny stage, there are four figures, either strumming or drumming or singing. I step over some crushed plastic cups.