Boom ba ba boom ba ba boom.

The music throbbed inside Mark Summers’s head, the bass pulsing through his chest and banging his rib cage like a heavy-metal heartbeat.

Someone had turned off the lights in the basement rec room and switched on a lava lamp, spilling clouds of red and blue across the walls. Steve Getty had snuck in a couple of townies eager to impress Whitney Prep’s hockey club. Though, at the moment, only one girl was in sight. The other had disappeared on her way to the john. She’d been gone so long that Mark wondered if she was stealing something. The girl left behind was in the midst of a sad striptease, shedding all but her bra and panties. She moved sloppily from one drunken guy to another, doing her best imitation of a lap dance.

When she tripped over Mark, he got up and moved out of reach despite her slurred “Hey, where ya goin’?” and the protests of his friends. But he felt sick watching her pathetic bumps and grinds, and not just because his mind was on Katie.

The colored lights pulsing and swirling made him dizzy, and he blinked to clear his eyes. Only that didn’t work. With every second, the fog in his brain thickened, his stomach churned.

He hadn’t drunk that much, had he?

He headed toward the stairs, holding a cup with one hand and grabbing the banister with the other. Once he’d made it to the first floor’s rear hallway, he had to lean against the wall, squeezing his eyes shut.

What the hell was going on? He’d just had one beer and started on his second, which Steve had tapped from the keg not ten minutes ago. Mark had promised Katie that he wouldn’t get wasted. He’d only half emptied the cup in his hand. He should barely be buzzed.

But something was wrong. He was practically drooling, and his head felt hazy. Numbness seeped through him so that he staggered when he walked. Bumping into a table, he set crystal to rattling. He fought to steady himself before he knocked anything over and broke it.

Be careful, Mark! Those are priceless antiques! He could hear his father ranting. They belong to Whitney, not to me!

Yeah, he thought, rubbing his eyes, just like everything else around here.

“You okay, man?” someone said. A hand gripped his shoulder.

“Yeah … no … I don’t know,” he mumbled, squinting as he focused hard on the familiar face with its crooked nose and worried frown. “Charlie.” He mouthed the name of his goalie and best friend.

Maybe having the guys over while his dad was out of town wasn’t such a great idea. Maybe he should tell everyone to clear out so he could go lie down. Was he getting the flu?

“Want me to tell Steve to take the girls home?” Charlie Frazer asked, as if reading his thoughts.

But Mark wasn’t listening.

I’m gonna puke, he realized as his stomach lurched, and he dropped his drink. The cup hit his shoe, splashing beer across the polished floor.

“Summers?” Charlie sounded worried.

He jerked away. “I need air,” he said, fighting the dizziness. He staggered down the hallway toward the back door. He had to get out of the house, had to stop the lights from swirling and his head from spinning, or he’d spew all over the expensive Persian rugs. But he didn’t make it outside.

Halfway there, he tripped and fell to his knees. For a moment, he stayed on all fours, his balance so off that he couldn’t get up on his own.

What was wrong with him?

“Are you okay?” a soft voice asked, and a hand reached down for his arm. “Here, hang on to me.” The girl grabbed his hand, helping him struggle to his feet.

He sucked in a whiff of her perfume, so sweet it made him gag.

“You should lie down for a sec.”

Mark squinted through his haze, trying hard to focus on her face: dark hair, dark eyes. He blinked. “Katie?” he said, slurring the two syllables.

“C’mon, you look like hell.” Her arm went around him.

Mark’s legs felt like jelly.

Moaning pathetically, he allowed himself to be led into the small room tucked behind the kitchen. He could hardly keep his eyes open, couldn’t form the words to speak. He needed to crash, couldn’t keep going.

“Relax,” the soft voice instructed.

She pushed him down, and Mark fell onto the bed.

A tiny bit of light glowed from the corner like the screen on a cell phone. Was someone else there? He saw the crucifix hung on the wall. This was the maid’s room. But Annalisa was off. Why was he here?

He tried to lift his head but couldn’t. His muscles didn’t work. All he could do was lie back and breathe. The sticky-sweet perfume filled his nose again. It wasn’t Katie. She smelled nothing like Katie.

He moaned as the weight of her body settled on his legs, pressing him into the mattress. Hands slipped beneath his shirt, sliding up his chest and playing with the St. Sebastian medal that Katie had given him before the play-offs began. It was supposed to protect him. Cool air made goose bumps race across his skin as his shirt came off. But he was so out of it, he couldn’t lift a finger to stop her.

“Don’t fight it. We’ll be done before you know it,” she said, her lips touching his jaw and then his mouth.

Mark wanted to push her off. But he couldn’t. He was too far gone already.