Trina shook her head, unable to look away from the train wreck about to happen.
“It’s time to come home,” Eugene said, stepping into the room. He nearly had to duck under the door frame. “Your mother is beside herself.”
“My mother is fine,” Dean said. “And you’re not invited to this party, Dad.”
People were throwing on coats and streaming past Eugene in a single file line, their heads down, eyes averted.
Dean didn’t seem to notice.
“You’ve had your fun, your rebellion, but it’s time to grow up, Dean,” Eugene said, pulling off elegant leather driving gloves, one finger at time. “If we leave now, we’ll be back before the Rosemonts get there. They’ve offered you a job. A good one—a better one than you probably deserve.”
Trina’s hands clenched into fists.
“I don’t give a shit about the Rosemonts, Dad. Or their job. Or you—”
Eugene cuffed Dean across the mouth, a sharp, hard openhanded slap that turned Dean’s face sideways.
Everyone in the party gasped and looked away, embarrassed and freaked out.
Trina stepped forward, compelled to do something.
“I think you should leave, Mr. McKenzie,” she said.
Eugene glanced her way, and did what would have been a comical double-take if the air in the room didn’t have the potential of starting on fire.
“Trina,” he said, utterly neutral. “I’m surprised to see you here. I would have thought you’d have grown out of your friendship with my son.”
Before Trina could say anything, Dean was there, stepping up to his father’s chest. “Go, Dad.”
Eugene didn’t move, and the two of them stared at each other for a long, awful moment.
Finally Dean shoved him with all his might, and Eugene staggered back against the wall. “I said get out,” Dean yelled. “You’re not welcome here, Dad!”
Eugene shoved off the wall and looked like he was about to punch Dean, and she got right in the way.
“Jesus,” she heard Trevor mutter.
“I think you should leave, Mr. McKenzie,” she said, looking up into his eyes, so much like Dean’s. “Before something you both regret happens.”
Eugene chuckled and straightened the lapels of his fancy coat. “You’re a disappointment, son,” he said to Dean over her shoulder. “I don’t know why I expect anything different.”
And then he was gone, the door clicking shut behind him sounding like a slam. Trina turned, braced for the worst from her friend.
But Dean was just still, and quiet. Blood beading on his lip.
“Dean?”
“You shouldn’t have gotten in the middle.”
“I should have let you two fight?”
“Yeah.” Dean nodded. “You could have been hurt.”
“I’m fine. You’re…you’re bleeding.”
His eyes were dilated and he was clearly ramped up. She wanted to get him out of there, into fresh air where he could walk and yell and get rid of this adrenaline. Somebody came up to him, the Mo guy from earlier, and handed him a shot and a plastic cup of beer.
“Parents suck, dude,” he said as he gave Dean the drinks.
Dean sucked back the shot and the beer.
Trevor was there suddenly. “Everything okay?” he asked, looking anxiously between Trina and Dean.
“Same as it ever was, man,” Dean said. He took a deep breath and let it out. “It’s a party. So let’s party.”
Someone cranked the music back up, and now that half the guests had left, there was room to dance and move around. All of which Dean did, with a wild-eyed fervor. He made out with two girls. Disappeared for a while with one of them.
“I think he’s recovered from that scene with his dad,” Trevor said into her ear when Dean walked back into the living room, clothes disheveled, lips red and swollen.
He looked like walking sex.
“Yeah,” she said.
But he wasn’t recovered.
And in a room full of friends and people he worked with, she had the feeling she was the only one who knew it.
Chapter Three
December 24, 2011
6:43 AM
For a minute, before opening her eyes, Trina Crawford allowed herself to believe she was in her own bed.
But there was someone else in this one.
And there had not been a someone else in her bed for a very long time.
Oh no, what have I done?
Trina turned her head on the pillow and nearly bumped noses with Dean.
Dean McKenzie. I did Dean McKenzie.
She clapped a hand over her mouth, squelching a delighted squeak.
Maybe this is a dream… just some strange stress-and-coming-back-to-Dusk-Falls-induced dream.
But when she squeezed her eyes shut and opened them again, Dean was still there. So was the headache pounding behind her eyeballs.
I slept with Dean.
His long, angular face was relaxed in sleep, his black hair like great sweeps of ink across the white pillowcase. His mouth, those wide lips—she curled her fingers against the urge to touch them, trace their edges—they’d been soft, softer even than she’d dreamt.