–Sebastian Tate

EMMA LIVED ON the same tree-lined street I did, so I pointed out my house to Sebastian as we sped by, noticing with surprise that lights were on inside. At least one of my parents had made it home for the weekend. I checked my phone to see if they had called or texted, but they hadn’t. It’d been over a week since I’d talked to Mother, even more for my father

I did have a text from Finn, and I opened it without thinking, flinching when I saw the disgusting image he’d sent. And even though I’d seen that picture a thousand times in my head, it still sickened me. His text said,

--Happy belated birthday, sis. This pic reminds me of the good times we used to have. Pretty soon we can do it again. Call me. I don’t want to have to show this to your friends . . .

My breath whooshed out, imagining him showing this picture to Mila or Sebastian or Leo. I leaned my head back against the car seat, concentrating on breathing evenly, praying they wouldn’t notice my freak out.

After a few minutes, we arrived at Emma’s, and Sebastian dropped us at the door and went in search of decent parking for his car.

On the stone steps of the porch, Mila and I were greeted by a blue-and-orange banner that said Briarcrest Academy Senior Class Rocks! We smirked at each other and opened the ornate glass doors and walked into a madhouse. Music blared, bodies gyrated, and alcohol flowed freely. Several couples kissed and groped each other around the room, and if the gossip was right, then some would end up in the bedrooms upstairs. It was a known fact that Emma’s parents were notoriously lenient, even staying in a hotel so she could host parties. Just another reason she was popular.

Cuba waved us over when we walked in, so Mila and I headed his way. He was sitting on a couch with a girl in his lap that I recognized from the dance team. I cocked a smile at him and raised my brows at his date. He shrugged his shoulders in a way that had meh written all over it. Huh. Did that mean they weren’t together?

One of Mila’s friends stopped her, but I kept going. Sex was on my mind, and Cuba was in my sights. First, I had to get this flirting thing down. It had come easily with Leo, but with Cuba it required work.

I reached the couch and plopped down beside him as gracefully as I could in my dress. He grinned and dance girl studied me from her perch. She had short blonde hair with streaks of pink, which made me think she liked to have fun. Her brown eyes looked a bit glazed as if she’d had a few drinks already. But the one thing that really caught my eye was the football jersey she had on. And if I had to make a guess, I’d say it was Cuba’s. Damn.

“There she is,” he said, running his golden eyes over my dress. “Are you ready to party?”

“Are you?” I replied, subtly checking out his well-defined arms in his tight designer shirt. He saw my gaze though and lifted his arm and flexed, showing me his ripped muscles. He gave me a suggestive look. “Anything else you wanna see? I’ve been told I look good naked.”

I blinked, feeling confused. Dance girl was right there.

Dance girl looked away, her expression seeming unconcerned with Cuba’s attentions.

A waiter walked by with a tray of shooters. Glad for the distraction, I grabbed two, dance girl grabbed two, and Cuba took the whole tray. We chuckled as the waiter took one look at Cuba’s girth and backed away.

I smiled and took the tray from him, sitting it in my lap. “Just what the doctor ordered,” I said, counting out twenty-one lemon drop shots in my head. “That’s seven a piece, guys,” I told them, dividing them out on the tray. The tart scent of lemons hit me as I took five of mine, one after the other, shuddering after each one.

“Yeah!” I called out, tossing the last empty glass to the floor, smiling as they clinked together. These were way better than the vodka.

“Whoa,” dance girl squealed. “You’re nothing like I thought.”

“Thanks,” I said, pleased.

As she took a shot, I checked out dance girl some more.

I made eye contact. “Hi. I don’t think we know each other? I’m Nora Blakely, sometimes referred to as the smartest kid at BA, although I’m not. That particular crown belongs to Drew Mansfield, the jerk that dumped me last year . . . but I digress . . . who are you?”

She smiled. “I’m Bridget. And I know who you are. I voted for you last year for class president. I can’t stand Emma Eason, and you seemed nice. Cuba says you’re pretty cool,” she said, tossing one back.

I grinned widely. “You’re not part of the Emma fan club?”

She laughed hard, like I’d just told the best joke ever. “Nope. She fucked my boyfriend freshman year, so yeah, I can’t stand her. I’m only here for the free booze and for Cuba, of course.”

My eyes went back and forth between them, trying to figure out if they were friends or lovers. She was sitting in his lap, looking all cozy. Yet, he was staring at me like I was his favorite dessert. I sighed. I wanted them to be friends, like I was with Sebastian; I wanted Cuba to be mine tonight.

“Bridget is a pretty name,” I commented, while Cuba leaned back and seemed to watch our bonding with bemusement. “So, let me ask you: how do you spell Bridget? Do you use a fancy spelling, like the French version, B-r-i-d-g-e-t-t-e? Please, tell me you don’t. If you do that’s fine, but I met this one girl tonight. She’s Tiffani-with-an-i, and she’s dating this guy I know and she’s a . . . well, I haven’t exactly decided what she is yet, but I will.”