Ew.
I blink at him in disgust and then thread my way quickly through the crowd, trying to put more distance between us. But it hardly matters. More than one lechy rich man uses the crowded room as an excuse to cop a feel as I walk by—including the George Clooney clone, Judge Hollowell, who brushes his hand down my thigh while entertaining several other party-goers with an apparently hilarious story.
My rising anger is making it hard to focus, and I find myself having to tamp down the urge to elbow my way through the crowd defensively.
The younger guests have mostly all gathered in one corner, talking and laughing amongst themselves, but I don’t see Lincoln or the other three.
Good. At least he’s not here to see this. I’m sure he’d find some way to blame me for these gross men trying to feel me up.
“Hey, Low. You okay, sweetheart?” Mom grabs my elbow and leans in to whisper in my ear. “You’ve got a bit of a death glare going on.”
Fuck. I suck in a breath, trying to rein in my temper. “Yeah. Just not used to this kind of crowd. Can I take a little break? I’ll come back to help again soon.”
She nods encouragingly. “Yeah, of course. Go get something to eat. Grab some of those crab cakes from the kitchen before they disappear.”
“Thanks, Mom.”
She gives me a little push in the direction of the door, and that’s all the encouragement I need. I hightail it out of the ballroom and head toward the west wing to the kitchen. Gwen, the cook, shoots me an indulgent smile as I snag a few crab cakes off a tray and fold them up in a napkin. Then I slip out the back door onto the terrace, anxious for a little bit of fresh air.
“Sneaking out early, Pool Girl?”
Dax’s voice to my right makes me jump—I’m already on edge from trying to keep my shit together in the ballroom—and my crab cakes fly out of my palm and land on the white marble of the terrace.
“Fuck!” I hiss, clapping a hand over my heart. “Do you guys always just hang out in the dark waiting to scare people?”
“No,” Lincoln drawls. “We came out here to avoid people.”
He smirks at me as he passes the joint between his fingers over to River.
“Well, you’re lucky you have that option,” I shoot back. “Not all of us do.”
“So what are you doing out here?”
“Just getting some air. And I was going to eat some food,” I add pointedly, gesturing to my ruined snack.
“Don’t blame me. I didn’t slap it out of your hand or anything,” Dax says with a grin. He takes the joint from River and inhales deeply, a satisfied expression crossing his face. They’ve taken off their jackets and untied their bowties, and Dax’s sleeves are rolled up over his forearms—and for some reason, they all look even better like this, casual and a little wild.
“Well, you can still make it up to me.” I hold out my hand. “Give me that.”
He holds the joint up and away, like he’s protecting a precious treasure, but I arch a brow and keep my hand out. “Remember under the bleachers? You owe me.”
“Under the bleachers?” Lincoln’s eyes narrow as he shoots a glance at Dax and Chase, and I wonder if he knows they came and talked to me that day. He almost seems mad or…
Is he jealous?
The twins both ignore his hard stare, and Dax finally shrugs, handing me the joint. “Fine. Fair’s fair.”
I take a long drag. It’s smooth, and I feel it immediately. Even though I’ll have to spray myself with Febreeze before I go back to the party, it’s so worth it. I got a medical card for marijuana when I was going through treatment for leukemia, and Mom used to make me pot brownies. I don’t actually smoke all that often anymore, but it still relaxes me. It’s just what I need right now. Better than crab cakes, even.
A contented little noise falls from my lips, and Dax’s eyes heat as he takes the joint back from me. Our fingertips brush, and it’s probably the high I can already feel buzzing through my system, but I want to touch more of him. Want to grab his hand and run my fingertips over the planes of his palm. I pull back quickly, clearing my throat as energy pulses in my veins.
Lincoln’s gaze darts back and forth between the two of us, and I can see clear irritation on his face.
But whatever. Fuck him. If he’s got a problem with his friends being sort of nice to me sometimes, that’s his issue to deal with.
They pass the joint again, and when Dax hands it over to me this time, I don’t shy away from the electric current that passes between us. Our touch lingers long enough to be obvious, and when I take a deep drag from the weed cigarette, all four of them watch me.
Then I hand it back to Dax with a satisfied, cocky smile. “Thanks. That should get me through a few more hours of this bullshit.”
I’m not quite sure, but as I turn and head back inside, I think I hear soft laughter behind me.
12
The rest of the party is fine. The ass-grabbing attempts don’t really stop, but I get better at evading them while looking like I’m just trying to do my job—shifting sideways out of reach or moving away to pick up an empty glass.
I’ll have to perfect it, I guess, because apparently the Blacks like to throw a lot of parties. Hooray.
Afterward, Mom and I have a pajama party in her apartment, which basically consists of us eating ice cream in our pajamas on her little couch while watching old episodes of The Twilight Zone. It’s all either of us have the
