“Party at Biggie’s,” Jared had been told while he leaned against the front bumper of his truck and smoked a rolled cigarette. “Be there or you’re nobody.”
That had been in the parking lot of the local Metropolitan Market. Jared had given the girl a withering look and not responded. The fact that she seemed to know who he was made him feel slightly uncomfortable, but it was a small town. There was no point in getting upset about it.
It took a couple minutes of Internet searching to find out who “Biggie” was and where he lived. Fortunately, he already had access to the school’s student forums, and he knew what to look for to get the information he needed.
Jared had driven out of town, then took a road that looked like it led nowhere. After ten minutes he almost turned back, convinced he’d been given false directions and someone, or a number of someones, were lying in wait to ambush the new guy.
He rounded another corner, and a huge white house came into view, lit up against the dark sky.
Mansion. Jared rolled the word around in his head. It was a motherfucking mansion.
There was a rhythmical thumping coming from the building that seemed to reverberate through the car, the source surely bass speakers of seriously decent quality. A few girls were smoking on the porch that wrapped around the front of the house. Another was already puking in the bushes.
Jesus Christ, Jared thought. It’s not even eight thirty.
He grabbed the bottle of Jack from the passenger seat and his rolling tobacco, stuffing the latter in his pocket before sliding out of the truck. There were a number of other cars already parked around the perimeter of the driveway, a fountain stuck ostentatiously in the middle. Audis, Mercedes, Jags, Bentleys. These kids knew how to play, considering none of them were out of high school yet.
Since he’d not been given an address for the party, let alone a dress code, Jared had gone with casual elegance in cutoff khakis and a denim shirt, the sleeves turned up to his elbows. Vans sneakers and his knitted beanie hat hiding his scruffy blond hair stopped it all from being too damn preppy. Being tall, Jared was always told to straighten his shoulders, stand with his chin up. He tended to hunch his shoulders.
Jared didn’t acknowledge the girls who stopped their conversation when he approached. Nor did he bother to knock on the door, instead letting himself into a party that already filled the enormous house with a mess of color, noise, and raging teenage hormones.
The music was coming from his left, so he headed right through an elegantly decorated living room to a kitchen at the back. The house was packed with people, all his age or slightly younger. Maybe one or two older college kids from UDub who had decided to join them.
Jared smacked the bottle of Jack ceremoniously on the center island and looked around.
“Mixers?” he asked to no one in particular.
A tall girl scrutinized him, tipping her head to one side. Then she walked over, physically pushing a smaller girl out of the way, and grabbed hold of his chin. Razor-sharp fingernails dug into his skin.
“You’re Jared Rawell,” she said in a husky voice. Thick, luscious chestnut hair fell in soft waves around her shoulders, and her dark eyes were heavily made up.
“Yeah. Who the fuck are you?”
The fingers on his chin tightened, and Jared refused to react. Then the girl smiled, her eyes suddenly bright.
“Clare Metago. I’ll let that go since you’re new.”
She released his chin and gestured to the enormous fridge. “Mixers are in there, surprisingly enough.”
Jared looked at her, then nodded. “Want one?”
“Sure. With Pepsi.”
Having nothing better to do, and intrigued by the Amazonian girl, Jared pulled a can of Pepsi from the fridge, filled two plastic cups with ice, and poured generous servings of whiskey before topping it with soda.
“When did you get here?” Clare asked, accepting the drink with a nod.
“Two days ago. I got out of school today because I’m jet-lagged.”
“You came from Michigan, not the freaking moon.”
“How do you even know that?”
She gave him a tiny shrug and sipped her drink. “I make a point of knowing everything around here.”
“Where’s Biggie?” Jared asked.
“I can tell you don’t know jack about how this place works yet,” Clare said. “He’s holding court. Let me introduce you.”
Abandoning the whiskey, which he didn’t expect to see again, Jared followed the girl as she weaved through the house. Her dark hair was so long, it reached her waist in a glossy curtain over her back. She was wearing tight indigo jeans and a thin cotton tank top—casual, but still classy.
They ended up in the room to the left, the one with the ear-splitting music and a large, African-American guy sitting on a sofa with a girl on either side of him. Jared forced his expression into neutral. He was clearly the same age as Jared, yet he looked like a ’90s gangsta rapper.
Several glinting gold chains snaked around his neck over a white T-shirt. His jeans looked several sizes too big, and heavy, and sand-colored Timberland boots were kicked up onto a low coffee table.
“Chris,” Clare yelled. “Chris. This is the new guy.”
With a flick of his wrist, Chris had someone turn the music down to merely several decibels loud and waved his girlfriends away.
“Take a seat, new guy,” Chris said.
Jared sat. “Jared,” he said, extending a hand.
“Biggie.”
“Really?”
Clare brought a hand up to cover her mouth, either in shock or to hide a smile.
“You’re new, so I’ll let that slide,” he said. His nostrils flared slightly, and his eyes were unnaturally wide. Pills, Jared decided. “Clare. Explain.”
“I’m gonna give him the tour,” she shouted over the music. “I’ll bring him up to speed for you.”
“Do that.”
Jared stood and
