But not for long. Pulling me out of my thoughts, Brett jogs toward me, Reagan in tow. “It’s happening,” he says excitedly, urging me to follow them while Reagan gets the rest of the group’s attention. “We have to go—now.”
“I don’t understand,” I say.
Lennon dusts his hands off. “What’s happening?”
“The bar,” Brett says. “I convinced one of the guests to order three mixed drinks.”
“Okay . . . ?”
“Which means,” he says, “the bartender will head back to the kitchen to fetch them. The bar will be unguarded. Now is our chance. Are you going to sit around throwing scraps of iron with old geezers, or do you want to have fun?”
“Fun!” Summer says.
“Come on, then,” Brett says, grinning wildly. He winks at me. “Let’s go, Everhart.”
He takes off, and I follow, slipping around the backside of the pavilion. Summer and Reagan are racing ahead across the darkening lawn, and when they make it to a short set of stairs that lead up to the smaller side deck, they pause for several seconds until Summer flashes us a thumbs-up sign.
We all climb three steps cautiously onto the narrow strip of deck circling the pavilion, staying hidden. The bar is only a few yards away, bathed in a strong cone of light. Like Brett predicted, the bartender seems to be headed toward the kitchen, and stops to talk to a pair of the serving crew, who are sweeping the floor and turning chairs upside down on top of the tables.
“That guest you convinced to order the drinks went to the Sunset Deck with her friends,” Summer reports in a loud whisper. “I think she was telling the bartender to bring the drinks out there.”
“Excellent,” Brett says with a grin, waving Reagan and Summer behind him. “Where’s my wingman?”
I realize he’s talking about Lennon, and glance around. He’s nowhere to be found.
“No time to wait,” Brett says. “Zorie, you’re taking his place. Stay here at the steps and keep a lookout in the shadows. Everyone else, follow me when Zorie gives the word.”
Keep a lookout? Why me? I frantically glance around while the others clamor onto the side deck. What am I supposed to be looking for? I check the lawn. I don’t have a decent view of the bonfire from here. And the people mingling on the Sunset Deck don’t seem to be paying attention to us. The only person who has a sightline on the bar is the acoustic guitar player. Can he see us? I can’t tell.
“Is it clear?” Brett whispers.
This is too much pressure. I do one last survey of the inner pavilion and wait until a server turns his back. “Okay, now!”
Brett crests over the top step and takes three strides toward the bar, slipping behind it. He punches the air with a victory fist and then ducks out of view. When he pops back up, he has two wine bottles. He hands them to Summer. She tries to pass them to Kendrick, and he waves them away—at least, at first. She says something to him that I can’t hear and shoves one of the bottles against his stomach. He caves and accepts it.
More bottles emerge. The clink of heavy glass echoes across the bar. It’s taking them forever. Why are they giggling? Someone’s going to hear. And just how many bottles of wine do they need? Summer’s already holding three.
I suddenly smell roasted marshmallow.
“Stuck on lookout duty?” a deep voice rumbles at my ear.
A small yelp escapes my mouth. I punch Lennon in the arm.
“Ow,” he complains, rubbing his sleeve.
“Stop creeping up on me like that,” I whisper. “You’ll give me a heart attack.”
His white teeth flash in the dusk. “Sounds like a challenge.”
“Glad you’re so gung ho for my early demise.”
“You used to like when I sneaked up in the dark.”
Memories from last fall flitter through my head. Tiptoeing out of the house to find him waiting behind the palm tree at the bottom of the steps. His hand over my mouth to stop me from laughing. Feeling like my heart would burst out my chest with wanting his arms around me.
Don’t think about it. Don’t answer him. Just pretend he didn’t say anything. Act casual.
“Where were you just now, anyway?” I manage.
“Not doing this stupid shit. And I also”—he holds up a flattened s’more—“found this. Never turn down toasted marshmallow. That’s a sin.”
“Oh, is it really?” I whisper, irritated that my heart is still racing. Because he startled me. Not because of what he said. Or that he’s standing so close that I can smell wood smoke on his shirt. But why is he standing so close?
“Pretty sure that’s what the preacher said last Sunday at church.”
“You still go to church with Mac?” The New Walden Chapel. They have service outside in a small amphitheater, and people from different faiths go there. I think they mainly exist to feed the homeless and do other charity-work-type things around the Bay Area; Mac used to be homeless when she was our age, and she often got her meals from their soup kitchen. My dad says it’s not a real church, but what would he know about divinity?
“I don’t have a choice. She claims I wear too much black.”
I snort. “Okay, so let me get this straight. Mac believes that God forgives her for selling things like . . .”
“Cock rings?” he provides.
That wasn’t my first choice. His nonchalance frazzles me, and I get a little defensive. “Yet God doesn’t forgive you reading all that gruesome horror manga? All those gory zombie movies?”
“Personally, I’d like to think so. Being prepared for the zombie apocalypse is just common sense.”
“Yeah, pretty sure I remember that being mentioned in the Bible,” I say sarcastically.
“It’s an amendment to the commandments,” he says. “Amendment number thirteen. Thou shall arm yourself with machete and shotgun, and remember to aim for the head.”
I turn away to keep my eye on Brett.
Lennon reaches around my shoulder, holding up half of a marshmallow. “Want some?”
His voice is dark and velvety, so
