But now that I’m at Bay’s home, I realize my plan is super stupid. I had no idea how massive the judge’s house is or how many people were going to be here. It’s a Carnivale party, which I thought meant feather headdresses and bedazzled bikinis, but I guess when you live in the South, it means resurrecting a tragic Halloween costume.
Seriously. The Tinker Bell to my left looks rode hard and the genie on my right . . . that may not actually be a costume. If Jason Baines is here, I’m going to have a hard time finding him—and if I do find him, how exactly am I supposed to get the roofies into his drink? Which also presumes he’s drinking.
I’m going to screw up everything.
“I don’t want to be here,” I whisper.
“Yes, you do.” Next to me, Lauren readjusts her cat ears. I’ll be honest, it was kind of awesome running into her. My best friend’s family is well-connected, and she often attends parties like these with her mother. I pretty much expected to see them, but part of me still went boneless with relief.
It’s probably the same part of me that’s responsible for my stupid plan of attack. Or it’s the part of me that’s gone soft. I used to operate alone. I still operate alone and yet . . .
“You being here makes Bren happy—and Bren could use a little happy.” Lauren tugs her fingers through her almost black hair, trying to smooth it. Pointless really. The wind is picking up and no amount of Restoration Hardware heaters or outdoor fireplaces is going to hide the fact that it’s freaking February.
“What if someone asks her about Todd?”
“They wouldn’t dare.” She says it with such a forceful smile I almost believe her.
Until that smile vanishes.
“Oh shit,” Lauren hisses, and I follow her gaze to Mrs. Cross, her mother. She’s talking to some guy in a Phantom of the Opera costume, her face absolutely white, her mouth fish-gulping for air. She’s on the tip of another panic attack, and just like that, my best friend’s melting through the crowd.
I start to follow, stop. Lauren won’t want me there. Neither of them will. Lauren and I aren’t friends because we like the same ice cream (even though we do) or because we like boy bands (even though we don’t). I think we’re friends because our mothers are damaged. My biological mom committed suicide. Her adoptive mom is imploding.
I hate it for Lauren, but it’s an unexpected windfall. Bren thinks I’m with Lauren. Lauren’s consumed with her mom.
Leaves me open to do what I need to do.
I turn toward the house and, like I’m living in some cheesy movie, spot Jason near the bar. He sees me and gives me a tiny nod, dark hair flipping into his eyes. I’m not sure if it’s in acknowledgment of how we used to work together or who my father is. Either way, I suddenly know how I’m going to finish this.
I elbow my way to the bar and order a Red Bull, play with my straw and glass until the bartender moves down to get drink orders from a Captain Kirk. There are two empty stools between Jason and me, but I can still feel his gaze crawl up my skin like spiders.
“Can you believe this?” he asks. The question’s so quiet I nearly miss it.
“No,” I say, and immediately I wish I hadn’t. Agreeing makes me more like him and less like the girl I’m going to be.
I keep my eyes on the people around us, fidgeting with my zombie Alice in Wonderland costume. Even if I weren’t meeting with Jason, this kind of party makes me anxious. It’s where I’m supposed to belong now, but I’ve been living this life with Bren for almost a year and it still feels borrowed.
In the corner of my vision, Jason shifts. He’s in a fifties-style suit, dressed up as a Mad Man, I guess, and as he leans closer, the jacket falls open. “So why’re you here?” he asks.
“To see you.” I push one hand into my skirt pocket, feel the Rohypnol roll like pebbles. “I have a message. From him.”
The dealer goes so still I know I’ve got him.
“From your dad?” he asks.
For the first time, I dare to fully look at him, raise both my eyebrows in a Who else do you think, idiot? way.
Jason smacks one hand against his suit jacket, exposing an enormous gold watch before he fishes out his iPhone. The screen is illuminated with an incoming call. “Give me one second,” he says. “I’m working.”
“He’ll be glad to know.” Jason’s gaze swings to mine, holds, and I can see nothing but want in his eyes: How he wants my father’s approval. How he wants to belong.
How I can use that against him.
So while Jason paces with whoever’s on the cell, I put two roofies in his beer. At least, I think it’s his beer. I’m almost positive.
After a few minutes, Jason circles back to me, grinning. “Cheers,” he says, and clinks his beer—I was right—against my Red Bull. He drinks the Heineken in two long pulls. “What does he need?”
“Wait for my friends to leave,” I say, and Jason nods.
We watch everyone but each other, and twenty minutes later, I tell him to follow me.