I don’t even try to correct him.
“We should go find all the superheroes here and try to fight some fucking evil together.”
“Her boyfriend is around here somewhere. He’s part of X-Men too.”
Batman looks a bit crestfallen. “Boyfriend, huh?” His eyes narrow to slits. “I think…I think I do know you. Do you ever go to The Cloud? It’s a club downtown.”
Before I say a word, I see him formulating the answer. Amusement flashes across his features. Immediately, my gut reaction kicks in and I bolt away from both of them, hoping Connor will follow. One guy spotting me and claiming we had sex is a weird coincidence. Two guys—Connor will think something’s wrong with me.
I stop in the foyer, blocked by a pack of people watching Fred Flintstone slide down the curving bannister.
Connor touches my shoulder, and I spin to face him, glad to not see Batman by his side. “I would adopt your methods at avoiding douchebags, but I’m guessing running away doesn’t make many friends.”
I relax. He thinks I flee to avoid jerks like frat Kevin and Batman. Truth be told, I’m not even sure if these guys are the assholes in the situation. I slept with them, acting exactly how they perceive me to be. Trashy.
“I’m not in the market for many friends,” I tell him.
“I figured. Should we find your boyfriend? Make sure he doesn’t puke on anyone.”
“He rarely pukes.”
“That’s good. Does he ditch you a lot at parties?”
“He didn’t ditch me. I left him in the kitchen.”
He holds up his hands, coming in peace. Then I lead the way, and when we reach the glass cabinet, a guy in nothing but a white button-down and socks realigns the bottles with an irritated scowl.
Uh-oh.
“What happened?” Connor asks, though I’m sure he’s deduced the obvious.
Tom Cruise from Risky Business takes out a skeleton key. “I found some asshole drinking my uncle’s liquor. Shit costs more than a car.” Uncle. He must be Thomas Jefferson’s cousin.
“Did you kick him out?” Connor keeps calm while my pulse spikes. What if they pulled Lo outside to beat him up or humiliate him…or worse?
“Nah, my brothers wanted to get his name first. They’re all out back.” Tom Cruise holds up a bottle with residual amber liquid. “He’s surprisingly coherent. I would be knocked out if I drank as much as this kid.”
I don’t wait for anything else. I dart for the back door, praying that Lo keeps his lips sealed. He has a way of saying the exact wrong things to instigate a fight. Most of the time, he does it on purpose.
I shouldn’t have insisted on attending a party. When I noticed the shift in his mood, I should have offered to go back home. He didn’t want to be here.
My boots sink into wet grass, and I pass the pool that glows a deep orange. Half-naked girls bob in and out of the water. Lo isn’t among the crowds that group off into small clusters with drinks nestled firmly in their hands.
Connor touches my shoulder and nods towards the side of the house. “Over here.” Has he already seen him? Or does he know where they interrogate unruly guests? I push back spider webs and black streamers, walking closer to the east side of the mansion.
People are sparse here, and the night sky whistles while yelling overlaps the soft hum of music.
“For the hundredth fucking time, the cabinet was open! Maybe you should check your locks before you throw a party.” Lo. We found him, but his inciting words only bring fear to my heart.
“We don’t give a shit about your excuses!”
Another guy adds, “Who the hell are you and what bastard invited you here?”
“That bastard would be me,” Connor says as we come into view.
A rock lodges in my throat. Lo stands cornered against the stone siding of the house. Four guys dressed in dark-green, long sleeve Under Armour shirts and light green surfer tanks, carry indignant scowls—as well as hard shells on their backs, dressed as Ninja Turtles.
Even in orange-lit light, I make out the red plume burgeoning on Lo’s cheek.
Someone hit him.
I run towards Lo, all sensibility flying out of my brain.
One of Thomas Jefferson’s Ninja Turtle cousins grabs me around the waist before I reach my boyfriend.
“Hey!” Lo and Connor yell in unison.
“Why the hell would you bring this trash to our uncle’s house?” The purple-bandana Donatello asks as I struggle to break from his grip. I kick out, my legs flailing in the air, but he holds tightly as if I’m a sack of bones.