A few minutes later, Johnny R. gives up on trying to convert us all to records and old-school rock and sets up a playlist on his iPhone, leaving the DJ station to invite me to dance next. I abandon the now empty bottle of whiskey, run my tongue over my teeth to make sure there aren't any lipstick stains, and take his hand.

 It's warm and sweaty and unsure. Joining Johnny R. in the empty dirt patch where my classmates grind and bump and grin and grope, I know I'm dancing with a boy instead of a man.

 Flickers of a different party, a different moment, a different dance partner skitter around the edges of my mind, but I ignore them, letting the booze and the weed keep control of my brain and all the horrible things crawling around inside of it.

 After a few songs, I push Johnny R. away and stumble over to the edge of the yard, where the black silhouettes of trees stand guard like silent ghosts. Putting my hand on the faded white paint of an apple tree trunk, I lean over and try to fight the sudden, overwhelming nausea spiraling through me. It doesn't help that on the ground near my boots, the plump corpses of rotten fruit litter the dirt like splotchy scabs.

 The scuff of a rubber sole on the ground nearby draws my attention up and over to the black-on-black shimmer of a shadow hiding in the trees. As sick as I feel right now, my head still spinning with THC and alcohol, my hand drops to my boot and the hunting knife buried in a sheath behind the leather.

 “Shouldn't mix pot and booze, Gidge,” a rough voice says, just beyond the orange-yellow pool of light cast by the bonfire. It dances through the dark, vertical bars of the forest, highlighting the dry brown sea of undergrowth.

 Lifting my head up, I try my very best not to puke.

 “Crown?” I ask, but I already know it's him because there's nobody else in this town that's as big as a house but that moves like a cat, padding on soft paws through the night. I swear, I can see his smile before I see his face, just the Cheshire's grin floating in the darkness. “What are you doing here?” I whisper, heart pounding, beads of sweat sliding down the sides of my face.

 Crown is my father's right hand, the vice president of Death by Daybreak.

 “Looking for you,” he says, stepping into the light, all six foot five of him cloaked in black leather and bullshit. Oh, don't get me wrong—Crown is as brutal as Cat on a good day. On a bad one, he's twice as dangerous and packed with enough emotional issues that he may as well be walking dynamite. But he's charming and he's handsome and the man all the club-whores fight over.

 My stomach turns and I lean over, planting a hand across lips painted ruby red. Crown knows I'm not allowed to wear makeup—ever. It's just another one of Cat's archaic, sexist, fucked-up rules.

 “As soon as I heard there was a senior class bonfire happening tonight,” he says, leaning his forearm against the apple tree, “I knew you'd make the great escape.”

 I fall to my knees and throw up, the sickly sweet smell of overripe apples making the situation ten times worse. I just hope Reba doesn't see me and come over here. It's already pretty damn clear how she feels about the drinking and the smoking; I don't need further confirmation that what I'm doing is wrong.

 “Finish up and let's go. My bike's parked down the hill.”

 I raise rust-red eyes up to glare at him, wishing I'd never touched that joint. Pot on its own is fine; alcohol I can handle. Crown is right—I shouldn't have mixed the two.

 “I can't just leave Reba here,” I say, even though I really could. Not only can she take care of herself—she says all good Southern belles know how to kick serious 'booty' if needed—but pretty much everyone here likes Reba. There's not a soul on this property that would refuse her a ride. Except, you know, maybe Crown.

 “Reba's just fine, and you know it,” he says, his moss green eyes taking me in with a flicker of amusement and just the tiniest spark of anger. He rubs a hand over his mouth and the dark stubble surrounding it. “Gidge, you're already in deep enough shit as it is.”

 “Cat knows,” I say, and the words come out a breathy sigh.

 “Yeah, Cat knows,” Crown tells me as I look up, and up, and up toward that handsome face of his. He has a nice square jaw, a full mouth, and green eyes that drop panties with a single glance—and trust me, they drop a lot of panties. In my humble opinion, Crown is a whore. He got his name by getting drunk on a whole bottle of Crown Royal whiskey—back when he was still a hang-around with the club—and ended up butt-ass naked on the roof with a groupie sucking his dick. Whore. That's what he is, no matter how charming he might seem at times.

 “Fucking great,” I say, getting to my feet as Crown just stands there and watches me stumble. Thanks for keeping your mouth shut, you asshole, I think as I take deep, steadying breaths and watch the world tumble and spin around me. But I know better than anyone that Crown—as well as the rest of the club—doesn't owe me shit. The only reason they associate with me at all is because of Cat. “I'm gonna tell Reba I'm leaving so she doesn't worry.”

 Crown crosses his big, muscular arms over his chest, leather vest crinkling with the motion.

 “What?”

 “Your friend's just fine, Gidge. And putting it off won't make it any easier.”

 I close my eyes and resist the urge to punch the apple tree in frustration.

 Once upon a time, I liked having Crown watch out for me, knowing that he'd be there if I needed him. Now I realize that he's more like a glorified prison guard. He's there not only to keep me safe, but to keep me period.

 I feel like screaming.

 Instead, I open my eyes and start hiking into the shadows of the trees, Crown silent and steady behind me.