Total pages in book: 89
Estimated words: 82883 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 414(@200wpm)___ 332(@250wpm)___ 276(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 82883 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 414(@200wpm)___ 332(@250wpm)___ 276(@300wpm)
He pushes off the wall and wades over, parting the crowd with the casual confidence of someone who’s never been told no. “Hey, Mary Kate. Glad you made it.”
His eyes flick from my face to my chest, then down to my boots. The look is not subtle. It’s not even disguised.
“Hi,” I say, then immediately hate myself for how small my voice sounds.
Clay tips his chin at Emmeline. “You want a beer?”
She holds up her cup. “Already set, but thanks.” Then she gives me a sly wink, melts back into the crowd, and leaves me alone with him. No! This is not what I want! But I manage to smile wanly at the frat boy.
Meanwhile, Clay doesn’t bother asking if I want a drink. He just puts a big, warm hand on the small of my back and steers me toward the kitchen, like it’s a done deal. His grip is firm, just this side of possessive, and for a second I have to fight the urge to pull away.
In the kitchen, the air is even hotter, and the counters are crowded with kids in various stages of intoxication. He grabs a Solo cup, fills it to the brim with foam, and hands it to me. I take a sip, then grimace at the taste: cheap beer, flat, and laced with something like orange peel. But I hold onto the cup anyway. That’s what girls do at parties, right? They always have something to sip.
He leans in, voice pitched low so only I can hear. “You look really hot tonight, Mary. I mean, Kate.”
I grimace with a smile, stalling by tucking a lock of hair behind my ear. “Um, thanks.”
He moves closer, his hand still at my back, thumb drawing slow circles. I glance up at him, and for a second, I can’t help but compare him to Kent. Clay is younger, but he smells like Axe body spray and gym socks, and the way he looks at me is pure calculation.
But Clay has changed tactics, and evidently the frat boy wants to dance. He guides me into the living room, where a makeshift dance floor has been set up — basically just a cleared space between the couch and the TV. The music is so loud it vibrates the windows, every beat a physical force. Clay sets his drink down, grabs my hand, and pulls me into the mass of gyrating bodies.
I let him lead. His hands are solid at my hips, steering me to the beat. For a minute, it almost feels good, to lose myself in the noise, to be just another girl at another party, to pretend that I’m not the prey. The bass thumps in my chest, rattling my ribs, and the heat of the room blurs the edges of everything. Clay spins me, then pulls me back against his chest. His arms circle my waist. We move in tandem, sweaty and a little awkward, but not unpleasant.
I shut my eyes and let the lights blur, let the crowd swallow me up. My head is spinning, but in a good way. I think, for a second, about Kent: the way he would have hated this place, the way he would have pulled me out by the wrist and slammed the door behind us, and the way I would have loved that, secretly.
Clay leans down, his lips at my ear, breath warm. “You’re a good dancer.”
I laugh, and the sound vibrates in my chest. “I’m terrible. You’re just drunk.”
He pulls me closer, one hand splayed on my lower back, the other tracing the edge of my waistband. I feel the heat of his palm even through the fabric. He’s not shy about it. He’s not even pretending.
I let it happen, because this is what college is supposed to be. Right? You go to a party, you let a boy hold you, you drink something cheap and pretend it’s the best night of your life.
I open my eyes, and the world snaps back into focus. There’s a moment, brief but sharp, where I see myself from the outside: a blonde in a skanky outfit and cowboy boots, pressed up against a guy she barely knows, trying not to think about how easy it would be for someone to take a photo, to send it to my stepfather, to make him hate me.
I shake the thought off. I force myself to have fun.
I turn to face Clay, hand braced on his chest, and for the umpteenth time I notice the acne along his jaw, the patch of unshaven hair just below his lip, the scar that bisects his left eyebrow. He’s not perfect, but he’s real, and right now, that’s fine. I’m having fun. I swear it.
The song ends, the next one even louder, and Clay pulls me off the floor, laughing. “You’re a natural,” he says.