Tracey scowled in response but kept dancing, mumbling something that sounded an awful lot like “stupid bitches” in our direction.
We headed out of the glare of the headlights to the crowd gathered around the keg, grabbing plastic cups from the stack on the ground and standing in line to get a beer even though we’d brought our container of vodka and OJ. No point in wasting perfectly good free beer.
Logan stood near the keg glaring at me the way my parents did when I missed curfew. His eyes narrowed and his jaw muscles twitched, reminding me of the Logan from the previous year—the one who loved a good fight. Sunny saw him and muttered an “uh-oh” to the other girls, motioning for them to steer clear of the drama that was clearly about to explode all over my night. They all mumbled some lame excuse about hitting The Ladies’ Room even though it was obvious they weren’t going there. The toilet paper was tucked safely in my purse, and Sunny would never dream of hitting up The Ladies’ Room without it.
I watched with growing apprehension as they teetered on their heels toward the group that usually hung out by the water tower after school, assuming Justin was somewhere in the mass of bodies clustering under the cloud of smoke. That meant Sunny would get to him first, and even though I told myself to stop obsessing and be cool about everything, it made me crazy to think he would see her in that dress before I even had the chance to say hello. Score one point for team Sunny.
Logan grabbed my arm and pulled me away from the keg. You didn’t need to be a genius to figure out he was pissed as a bee in a jar, so it was no surprise when whispers and curious stares followed us as we melted into the shadows of The Fields. He didn’t stop dragging me until we were behind the wooden frame of a partially finished house, out of earshot.
“What the hell, Taylor?”
I noticed for the first time he held a beer, the foamy surface sloshing over the top of the plastic cup when he moved. Logan wasn’t a big drinker, which was part of the reason he hated going to The Fields. That, and what happened to his brother last year. No one pressed Logan to drink, or argued with him when he tried to take their car keys away or lectured them on the dangers of drinking and driving. We kind of expected him to go all After School Special on us about drinking, so it was weird watching him take a big swallow from his cup and stagger slightly when he looked at me, his gaze unsteady. It made me nervous.
I smiled really big at him, trying to look like I was glad to see him so he wouldn’t know I was scared.
“Well, hello to you too,” I said, reaching my hand out to touch him. He swatted me away and gave my shoulder a shove. Not hard enough to knock me over, but hard enough that I staggered backward and spilled beer down the front of my shirt.
“What is your problem?” I asked, recovering and stepping backward so I was leaning against one of the raw pieces of skeletal wood framing the unfinished house. I wished it wasn’t there so I could put more distance between us. I didn’t like the angry look in Logan’s eyes.
“My problem?” he said, his voice rising above the crowd and music so the people down by the keg could no doubt hear us. “Where have you been, huh? Who’ve you been with? Don’t ask me what my problem is. I have every right to have a problem!” He took a step toward me and another swig of his beer, his glassy eyes wide and wild.
“I’ve been at Sunny’s, which is exactly where I said I’d be.” I gritted my teeth to keep from yelling because I suspected people were trying to listen in. The kids from my high school loved nothing more than a good bout of drama, and anyone who saw Logan drag me away from the keg would know something was up. “I can’t think of what your problem would be.”
He made this loud hrmph noise and wiped his mouth on the back of his arm, his eyes grazing over my head toward the crowd at the keg. Then he leaned in close, his mouth warm and his breath sour from beer. He closed his fingers tightly around my wrist. “You’re a fucking liar,” he whispered.
I tried to pry my wrist free from his pinching fingers, but he held me there and squeezed even tighter, shaking me so my beer fell from my other hand and splashed across the ground. I bit back a yelp, not wanting to give him the satisfaction of knowing he was hurting me. Instead I smiled at him and held up my chin defiantly, even though I could feel tears prickling at the corners of my eyes from the screaming pain in my wrist.
“You’re drunk,” I said through clenched teeth. “We should get someone to drive you home.”
He grabbed the free hand that had held my beer and pinned it behind my back, twisting my wrist so a sharp jab of pain shot up my arm. I couldn’t help it; a yelp escaped my mouth and a tear slid down my cheek.
“Aww, does that hurt?” He sneered and gave my wrist another twist, this one so hard my vision blurred and my knees felt like they might buckle underneath me. Everything around me seemed to dip and swim in and out of focus. “Well, it’s nothing compared to the way you’re hurting me,” he said, shaking me again and pressing me back against the wooden frame.
I turned my face away from his and squeezed my eyes closed, bracing myself for whatever it was he was about to do. Normally I would have found something bitchy to say to him, something to let him know what an asshole he was, but the blood rushed in my ears, pulsing with the rhythm of the music spilling from Greg Younger’s truck, and I couldn’t think straight. Instead, I closed my eyes and waited for the blow that must be coming.