It can’t be that bad, right? Not if Matt is involved. He’s a Polo and loafers while playing golf kind of guy. Not a mysterious, I’ll chase you down in an alley and kill you type of vibe. “It’s like a cult,” I mumble to her. “If they try to brand our asses, we run for it.” Fuck the keys, cell phone, and ID. I can get new ones.
She laughs like I’m joking.
CHAPTER EIGHT
BLAKELY
TWO HOURS AND three drinks later, I’m pretty fucking drunk. Sarah’s damn near gone. We’re laughing and dancing to “Mad Hatter” by Melanie Martinez.
I get this spine-chilling feeling and stop dancing. I quickly look around, but I can’t focus on anything. My hair slaps me in the face, and I shove it back behind my ear the best I can. Only for it to fall back in my way.
“What?” She notices and stops dancing. “You going to get sick?”
“No. I …” My eyes stop on the table at the front of the ballroom. It sits high up on a platform, giving the ones seated there a clear view of the crowd. Two of them are now standing behind it, facing one another. Their hand movements let me know they’re deep in conversation. The one on the very end is typing away on a phone, making me wonder why we had to give ours up. The one in the middle. It’s a man. I can tell by the way he’s sitting. He’s laid back in his seat with his right hand up, resting on the side of his mask. It causes the sleeve of his cloak to slide down, and I can see the black and silver watch on his wrist. The flashing lights hit it, almost blinding me.
The one sitting next to him leans in and must say something because the guy’s mask moves up and down as if he’s agreeing.
Those feelings return, making my breathing pick up while I stare at him. Bringing the drink to my lips, I go to take a sip, but I’m hit from behind, knocked forward, making me spill it down my face and shirt. “What the fuck?” I spin around.
“Sorry … Blakely?”
I blink up at another guy dressed in a black cloak and mask. “How do you know …？”
He rips his mask off, and I stare up at a set of wide blue eyes. They instantly narrow on me as I blink. “Blakely?” he growls. “What are you … What are you doing here?”
I can’t speak. Instead, my eyes go to the bleach blonde he’s still holding. She clings to him like the typical drunk girl who can’t stand on her own.
“What in the fuck is this?” Sarah demands, stepping forward. “Who the fuck is this bitch?” She’s always been an angry drunk. Senior year of high school, she got trashed and punched her ex-boyfriend in the face for not having any gum. The cops were called, parents showed up. It was a nightmare.
“Hey,” the girl whines and then laughs. “I’m his girlfriend.”
“No!” Sarah snaps, yanking my arm, and pulls me forward. More alcohol rolls over the rim of my cup and onto my clothes. “This is his fucking girlfriend.”
She frowns and looks up at him. “Huh? Baby, what’s she …” Hiccup. “Talking about?”
“Nothing,” Matt tells her.
Sarah laughs, but it holds no humor.
His words snap me out of my trance. We started dating my freshman year when I moved here to Pennsylvania from Texas for college. We knew each other in high school, grew up in the same city, but I wasn’t allowed to date then. Not until you’re in college, Blakely. That’s when you’re old enough to understand a relationship, my mother had said.
I’ve remained a virgin for him. I’ve begged him to fuck me, and every damn time, he’s turned me down. Here I am, twenty years old, and the only thing I’ve fucked is a dildo that I’m not even sure how to use and a vibrator that I keep plugged into the wall when I feel like screaming for a release. He fucked Gabby Simmons his sophomore year in high school. His number kept climbing after that. And it looks like it hasn’t stopped.
He steps forward. “Blakely …”
I grab Sarah’s drink out of her hand and toss it into his face. Thankfully, it had more than mine. He gasps, and his girlfriend cups her mouth, softening her laugh.
“Fuck,” he growls, running his hand down it, wiping off the excess alcohol before shoving his damn mask over it like I have more to throw at him.
“This is over,” I tell him.
“Blakely—”
“Enjoy,” I tell her, interrupting him with a big fuck-you smile and walking off.
Making my way to the kitchen, I stop at the island. Placing both of my hands on the edge, I bow my head. My sweaty, tangled hair falls to cover my face, and I sniff, trying to calm my breathing. I will not cry here. This will not be the last time I see him. I’m stuck here until he graduates at the end of this year.