Suddenly, it hits me.
I don’t have to date this girl, or ask her father for her hand in marriage. I don’t have to struggle with celibacy or how far to take things before our wedding night. I can just sit back and appreciate the curves of the female body from a safe twenty-foot distance. I won’t touch them and they won’t touch me. I’m just looking. I feel high, and all I’m doing is looking. Watching. Studying. All the times I’ve ever snuck off and done things guys at CU are warned not to do—even though it’s our own body—don’t compare to the feeling surging through me at this moment. And all I’m doing is watching.
I watch all night, ordering several more Cokes from Destiny, and then the girl who came in at shift change, though I didn’t catch her name.
I never make it to the party, but stumble home sometime after midnight, feeling what I’m guessing it might feel like to be drunk, and climb into bed before anyone can question where I may have been. Lying in bed with my eyes closed, I can’t shake the images of the night from my mind.
And I don’t think I want to.
CHAPTER TWENTY
Royals
Kennedy.
“Well, here we are,” I murmur, pulling down the long, exclusively gated driveway of Trent’s parents’ house.
I’m careful with most of the people I know to not call it their house. They did nothing but be born into such a life, and, in my head anyway, I’m careful to remind myself of that.
“Oh, how sweet,” Mollie coos sarcastically, “they’ve got valet.”
Rolling my eyes, I pull up behind a shiny Land Rover, and wait for my turn to hand my keys over to some underpaid college student who is probably going to pee in my back seat.
“If they wanted to show off,” I say as Mollie and I ascend the front steps, “they could at least be responsible about it. Why not hire some sort of cab or bus service to drive the soon-to-be-drunk kids home?”
Mollie shakes her head. “Put your bonnet away, Grandma, we’re heading into a party now. Can you handle it?” She places her hands on her tiny hips, wearing the next-to-nothing outfit she selected yesterday.
“Do I look okay?” I ask, suddenly very aware of the butterflies in my stomach.
A combination of seeing Trent, being somewhere I’m not supposed to, and the weird way my text conversation with Matt ended has me feeling off balance. Still, I managed to only amass a few dress code violations in an effort to attend this party without looking Amish. I selected dark-washed skinny jeans, and paired them with knee-high brown boots. A burnt orange tank top clings desperately to my stomach, but a thin, brown, three-quarter length sweater covers me somewhat.
Mollie reaches forward, grabbing the bottom of my shirt and rolling it up an inch. Once a sliver of my stomach is visible, she sighs, contented. “You look amazing. Trent’s going to kick himself for letting you go.”
I roll my eyes. “That was like a hundred years ago, Moll.”
She smiles broadly. “And, as soon as he sees you, it’ll feel like only yesterday. Bastard,” she whispers, opening the oversized front door to the Kratz estate.
Once her back is to me, I unroll my tank top, covering my stomach and letting it hang a full two-inches below the button of my jeans.
“Mollie! Kennedy!” Tara hollers from mid-way up a grand staircase. “Get over here you dirty hookers!”
We meet her halfway and hug our foul-mouthed friend. Tara’s always had a penchant for profanity and wild hair colors. I’ve seen her hair almost every color of the rainbow, so her rather basic jet-black throws me off balance.
“Look at your hair!” I smile, pulling back form our hug. “Are you going conservative on us?”
She snorts. “Hardly.” Turning around, she lifts the back of her hair, revealing that a significant portion of the underside has been shaved, and what hair is left has been dyed bright pink.
“Awesome!” Mollie runs her hand up the back of Tara’s buzzed hair and motions for me to feel it.
“I’m set,” I assure both of them, sliding my hands in the back pocket of my jeans and taking a quick look around.
By all appearances, this looks like a standard party. An adult party. Sure, there is contemporary pop music playing, and the crowd is all under twenty-five, but with rich kids, there’s always the appearance of maturity. Anyone popping pills, blowing lines, or smoking pot is relegated to a room or two upstairs, and there are no beer cans here. There is a tapped keg in the kitchen, some helpful passerby assures me, and wine and liquor are on the bar.
No one is running around half-naked hooting and hollering, there is no puking into the bushes, and, likely, the cops won’t be called. It is the unspoken responsibility of everyone in attendance to keep up the appearance of having their shit together. Even when it might be the furthest thing from the truth.
Whitewashed tombs.
“Where’s Trent?” I blurt out to cover up the scriptures running through my brain.