I finish getting ready, stuffing pajamas and toiletries into my backpack, and meet Willow by the front door. Ever since the guy broke in—and before that, even, to when my room was trashed the first time—the apartment hasn’t felt the same.
My skin prickles the whole time I’m outside. So much so that I have to resist the urge to hike my bag up higher, and to lift my shoulders to my ears. Willow doesn’t have such a problem. She looks ready to hit the ski slopes with a white-and-pink argyle hat, white puffer jacket, and white leggings. Her pink boots are laced up her calves.
“Really?”
She grins. “You never know, okay?”
Fair enough… but there better not be guys at Amanda’s. Or anyone other than the few people Willow promised would be in attendance.
Shit. I get the sinking feeling that I’m walking into something bigger than just an innocent little sleepover.
We walk to Amanda’s apartment, which is only a block west. She opens the door as we come up the front walkway, grinning at us with a glass of white wine in her hand. She rents half of a house from an old lady who lives next door, so it’s one of the quieter streets.
She usually doesn’t host for that reason. Part of her lease is respecting the quiet hours, and I think she’s terrified of getting evicted. I don’t blame her—she has a good deal.
I glance over my shoulder and scan the street, but it’s quiet.
“Come on,” Amanda calls, stamping her socked feet. “It’s freezing out here.”
Willow and I hurry in behind her, and I stop dead.
This is not just a little sleepover. There are fifteen girls here. I only recognize some of them from the dance team, but that’s not surprising. Amanda does a little bit of everything around campus. Student government, clubs, working in the dean’s office part-time. She knows everyone, and everyone knows her.
I nudge Willow, who just grins.
“We just ordered pizza. I’m so glad you could make it!” Amanda plants a kiss on my cheek and slips back into the living room.
It’s a good-sized room, but still there aren’t enough seats. Many of the girls are sprawled out on the floor. Not that they look put out about it.
“Drink?” Jess asks, coming over with two red cups and a pitcher of pink liquid.
Willow laughs. “What the hell is that?”
“Jungle juice.” She leans in and lowers her voice. “I guess the landlord is out of town for the week, so Amanda is taking full advantage. No fucking quiet hours tonight!”
The other girls whoop and cheer behind her.
I extend my hand for one of the cups, and Willow takes the other. Jess pours us a hefty amount, and I don’t think before I throw back a big swallow. The flavor is fruity, with a citrus tang. It completely blocks the bite of liquor.
Warmth spreads through me.
Jess snorts and refills my cup. “Off to a good start.”
“You’ve been noticeably absent,” another girl calls.
I turn my attention to the group. The one who spoke is a sophomore on the dance team. I think her name is Michelle?
I shift, suddenly uncomfortable with the spotlight.
I shouldn’t be. I grew up in the spotlight. I was cultivated in the spotlight. But somehow, sparring with Greyson has worn away the edges. I’ve come to learn that it hurts when I’m put to the test and don’t pass.
Is that what happened? I didn’t pass his test?
My cheeks burn.
Willow grips my free hand. “She’s been letting Paris cool off. You know how she gets.”
More girls nod, and I relax. We find seats, and the discussion moves from me to Paris. I’m not the only one who’s felt her wrath over the years, I guess. Then from Paris to Greyson—and the whole hockey team. They’re on a winning streak, demolishing the competition at an away game last weekend.
I smile and drink and nod my way through the evening.
I’m as plastic as my cup—and I hate that I feel like this. The more drunk I get, the more I settle into the floor. I go from sitting next to Willow to leaning on her, to resting my head on her shoulder.
When the pizza comes, I pick at a single piece and blame my churning stomach on the alcohol. I don’t want to know how many calories I’m drinking, how much sugar… the hangover will be my punishment.
Tonight I just need to let go.
Before I know it, the pizza is gone and someone puts on music.
I hop to my feet, suddenly invigorated. I haul Willow up with me.
“Dance party!” I yell.
They’re with me. The music cranks louder, and I sink into the rhythm. It took too fucking long to learn how to move the way real people do—not just ballerinas. I was flexible, but I didn’t know how to use my body.
That’s why I joined the dance team.
That, and the Crown Point Ballet has a distinct contemporary flavor. If I wanted to succeed, then I had to incorporate some new theories into my study—a common Mia phrase. She wants the best, but she wants new. Eccentric. Beauty that comes in odd shapes.
She has the best choreography because of it.
I twist and whirl, and the drinks did their job—I can’t feel the pain in my leg at all. I grab Jess’s hand and spin her, pulling her back toward me. I tip my head back and relish moving my body again, until the walls blur and I lose track of myself.
The longer I dance, the more I convince myself that I needed this. I needed to forget for a while. And that’s exactly what I’m doing.
Forgetting.
21
VIOLET
I don’t know what wakes me up. A noise? A sensation?
My eyes open in the darkness, and I blink a few times to try and see more clearly. All around me are the faint snores of the other girls. A sliver of moonlight streams in around the edges of the blinds.
I open my mouth, then realize there’s something covering my lips.
What the fuck?
I touch the slightly bumpy texture of tape over my mouth, and then the shadow descends. My hands are yanked over my head and connected to something. There’s a soft click, and cold metal closes around my wrists.
Fear twists through me.
The shadow returns, and it takes precious seconds to realize it’s Greyson.
His face is a mask of ice.
Duct tape.
Handcuffs.
I wriggle, trying to move my body up so my arms aren’t useless, but he ignores it and yanks my sleep shorts down.
I go still.
My heart is rioting, slamming against my ribs. My pulse is all I can hear, like rushing water in my ears, and I struggle to calm down.
To breathe through my nose.
He crawls over me, straddling my hips. He bends down and licks the side of my face. His tongue leaves a wet trail up my cheek, over the corner of my eye.
“I love your tears,” he confesses, his lips pressed to my ear. “I fucking love your terror.”
I shiver. He’s said that before—but what lengths will he go to get it?
“What do you think will happen if one of them wakes up?” He turns his head, looking out over the girls spread across the living room.
I don’t remember falling asleep. I just remember the dancing, and eventually the exhaustion. Did I decide to lie down? Did we all collectively decide to go to sleep at the same time?
Sleepovers generally don’t involve that much sleep.
And for Greyson to have gotten in here…