Total pages in book: 177
Estimated words: 173392 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 867(@200wpm)___ 694(@250wpm)___ 578(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 173392 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 867(@200wpm)___ 694(@250wpm)___ 578(@300wpm)
“Sorry,” the brunette one says, smiling and still laughing with his friend as they jog down the stairs. A fresh bruise sits on his neck, similar to the one I had a week ago.
The door behind me opens again, and Dallas steps out, pulling on a T-shirt. His hair falls in his eyes, but then he slicks it back over the top of his head, the dark strands threaded through his fingers.
His green eyes bore into me as he passes, and I’m pretty sure Dallas wishes I were a man. He could hurt me then.
Chromatics’ “Whispers in the Hall” starts as the lights suddenly dim, and only a blue glow fills the downstairs. People howl with excitement as I come to the bottom of the steps, and I look right, seeing couples dance in what I think used to be the dining room. But I’ve only ever seen a pool table in there. They hold each other close, bodies moving into each other, and I can make out a zombie nurse, a cat, a Camp Crystal Lake counselor in short-shorts and tube socks, and a ghost with an erection tenting his sheet. Clever.
I start to look for Iron, but then I remember Clay saying she posted pictures of her and Liv’s costumes. I check Instagram, tapping on her latest pic and enlarging it.
Clay is dressed as James Bond, complete with fitted tuxedo and bow tie. Her blond hair, in loose waves, is teased and big, while Liv—interestingly enough—is dressed like a Bond girl. Tight, sleek red gown, the shiny silk showing every curve, the slit in the fabric teasing all the way up her thigh. I laugh to myself. She puts up a fight over what role she’s told she has to play, but for her girlfriend, she’s happy to be dominated.
“Is that Liv and Clay?” someone asks over my shoulder.
I glance at Trace as he peers at the pic on my phone, his chin practically resting on my shoulder.
“Yeah.”
He smiles. “That’s cool.”
A guy wearing skull face paint passes by us with a young woman’s hand in his. My gaze immediately drops to her chest, unable to not notice.
Holy shit.
They walk up the stairs, other heads turning as they go.
I tuck my phone away, turning to Trace. “Was she seriously just dressed as a wet T-shirt contest winner?” I snort. “That’s awesome.”
He hooks an arm around my neck, grinning. “You’re not at a high school party, honey. Or a St. Carmen one.” He leans into my ear. “There are men here.”
Yeah. I know. I’ve been to some parties here, thanks.
I look back up at him. Black pants, black belt, no shirt. The word SAUCE is written on his abs in blocky black letters. Then there’s an arrow pointing down toward his groin.
“What are you—?” But then I stop, realization dawning. Hot sauce. I roll my eyes.
He chuckles. “What are you supposed to be?”
I open my mouth to answer, but someone else does instead. “Welcome to the mad tea party, Hatter.”
I glance up, seeing Iron approach, his John Wick costume looking entirely too good not to be a daily thing. Black suit, white shirt, and black tie all chic and fitting like the outfit was especially made for him, but I know Iron wouldn’t have wasted money getting a costume specifically tailored. His black hair is pushed back, but a little to the side, and while he doesn’t have a beard like Keanu, he might look better, because the Jaeger boys’ green eyes are something else when they wear black.
“You’ll fit right in,” he teases, paraphrasing a quote from Alice in Wonderland.
He takes my hand, and Trace releases me, walking on my other side as Iron leads me.
“Please tell me you are actually serving minors?” I ask them.
Trace arches a brow. “You sleeping over?”
“If she drinks, she stays,” Iron says, holding out his other hand. “Give me your keys.”
I look up at him.
And I take out my car key, dropping it into his hand.
Sliding it into his pocket, he takes my hand again and leads us to the kitchen, where the L-shaped counter is full of food and the shorter section has been turned into a bar. Iron takes a cup, uses it to scoop ice out of a cooler, and then lifts the bottle of rum, looking to me before he pours it.
I nod, and the next thing I know, liquor is sloshing over the cubes, damn near filling the glass. My eyes go wide, but I don’t say anything as he adds some ginger ale to whatever space is left in the cup.
He hands it to me, and I can’t help but laugh. “Thanks.”
They’re whiskey and beer guys. I’ll make my own mixed drinks next time.
I sip, instantly feeling that anticipation that the promise of alcohol brings as the spice burns my throat. Iron pours some Macallan over ice, while Trace pops the top on a beer and the song changes to something harder. A cup drops, its contents spilling. I look up, seeing the garage, outside the kitchen window, full of people, too. Macon sits on a brown leather couch.