“So what?” she says, but I can tell by the pause in her typing that she’s considering what I’ve said.
“You’re right,” I say. “You can probably handle Bishop alone. You can run fast, right? His legs are freakishly long, though.” I tap my chin with my finger. “You could always scream? Except that it might be hard to hear you over the noise of the party.”
Paige wrinkles up her nose at me, but she stows her phone in her purse and unbuckles her seat belt. I resist the urge to smile. And Bishop said cheerleaders aren’t smart.
Except that maybe he’s right. Because wasn’t this—the social suicide of being seen at a party with Paige—what I was just trying to avoid?
I give Paige an appraisal as we walk toward the house. She’s wearing a pair of ripped boyfriend jeans and a fitted wifebeater. It’s actually a good look on her. She should probably consider wearing her pj’s out more often.
We climb the spotlit steps that lead to the doors, which are framed with neatly trimmed bushes.
I open the doors and— Holy crap. How has this party not been busted up by the cops yet? The living room is crammed full of three hundred of Jarrod’s closest friends, a sea of bodies jumping, writhing, and swaying to the music that thumps from huge speakers set up in all corners of the room. There are red plastic cups everywhere, and a couple is practically doing it on the couch. Not to mention the air reeks of vomit. Jarrod’s neighbors must be out of town. Or in a really, really forgiving mood.
“Indie!” Some guy I vaguely recognize from the football team wraps his arm around my neck (really, it’s like a choke hold), sloshing his drink down the front of my shirt. “Hey, everyone! Indie made it!”
The party erupts into cheering and whistling, and I can’t help but smile, despite smelling even more like a whiskey distillery than when I left the concert. The guy finally lets go of my neck and stumbles off to join a group of guys doing shots at the minibar.
“Be right back,” I say to Paige. She leaps back from a drunken girl who nearly stumbles into her. And just like that, my fear of being seen with Paige vanishes entirely, because I’m now confident that if anyone saw us come in together, they won’t remember tomorrow.
I push through the crowd, toward the kitchen, craning my neck to look for Devon’s floppy blond waves. I finally arrive there with only two new scents (vodka and beer) added to my shirt.
And what the hell is this? Bishop leans against the stainless steel fridge, hands in his pockets, while no fewer than four girls circle him. Two I don’t recognize, but the other two are the Amy/Ashley twins. One touches his arm while the other bats her eyelashes at him. Have they been passing around hallucinogens at this party?
I scrutinize Bishop more closely. Longish hair, tattoos, leather—I guess he is good-looking. I mean, if I were drunk I might find him good-looking. In a bad-boy, poser kind of way.
He gives me a two-fingered salute, then goes back to flirting with the girls.
I suppose it’s good he’s not killing anyone. And why should I care what the stupid Amy/Ashley twins do? I don’t. There.
I turn away and spot Jarrod’s red hair over the top of a crowd of people near the keg.
“Jarrod!” I call out.
“Indie! Come do a keg stand.” He wobbles, holding out the black hose attached to the keg.
“Um, no thanks. Have you seen Devon around?”
He shrugs. “Nah. Hey, Andrew, wanna do a keg s-stand?”
Some guy stumbles up from behind me, and then Jarrod’s helping to hold up his legs.
I will never understand keg stands.
I check the dining room and sitting room without any luck, then go upstairs. It’s less crowded, but I still have to flatten myself against the wall to maneuver down the wide hallway. I pass the first bedroom—and seriously, who doesn’t close the door? Shielding my eyes from the writhing mass of skin on the bed, I continue down the hall. There’s a line at least a dozen people long coming from one door, which I guess is the bathroom. The next room I find is an office, which is surprisingly empty. That leaves only one room left. Down this wing, anyway.
I give the door a little tap, then crack it open. It’s dark, but moonlight slants in through the open windows and onto the king-sized four-poster. The sheets are rumpled over two bodies, which shift at the sound of me entering.
“Sorry!” I start to close the door.
“Indie?”
My breath hitches. Bianca? For some reason, instead of cowering, I throw the door open.
Bianca sits up, drawing the covers over her bare chest. I can’t see her face, just that her perfect hair is mussed.
“I’m so sorry,” she says.
“Sorry? Sorry for what?” I take a step into the room.
And that’s when I see the blond hair pressed against the pillow next to Bianca.
Devon.
11