Bishop is already adjusting the passenger seat to accommodate his long legs before I can even get into the car.
“No way.” I settle into the driver’s seat. “Paige rides up front.”
“She doesn’t care. Look, she’s already in the back.” He swivels in the seat to face Paige. “You don’t care, right?”
Paige snaps the buckle of her seat belt. “It’s fine.”
I purse my lips. But actually, it’s probably better not to have my back turned to him. And I have to say, he looks much less intimidating with his legs all smushed up like he’s riding in a clown car.
“So where’s this party at?” He rubs his hands together.
I start the car. “You’ll see when we get there.”
“Oh, like a surprise. How fun.”
I glance at Paige in the rearview mirror. She catches my eye and gives me a look that distinctly says “What the hell have you gotten me into?” I quickly turn my focus back to the road. I don’t know what to tell her. Sorry, I wasn’t really thinking straight? My apologies if he hacks out our innards with a rusty pocketknife?
I could drop her off at home, or even back at Jessie’s house, but the truth is I don’t want to be alone with this guy, even if the drive is less than ten minutes. Guess I’ve grown rather fond of my innards.
“Got any tunes?” Bishop reaches for the dial on the radio. He skips from station to station.
“Would you quit that?” I ask.
“Got Sirius? An iPod? A CD, even?” He opens the glove compartment and rummages inside.
I slap his hand away. “Do you mind?”
“What?”
“Don’t touch anything, okay? Just sit there and be quiet.”
He snorts, but miraculously, he obeys.
That’s when I notice how incredibly deserted Los Angeles has become. I mean, we do pass cars, but the traffic is about an eighth of what it usually is, and only the occasional upstairs light is on inside the houses lining North Highland. I glance at the clock on the dash and find that it’s after three in the morning. A thought strikes me: what if the party is over? It wouldn’t be uncommon for the cops to bust up one of Jarrod’s rockers.
But my fears are quickly dispelled when I take a right onto Lorraine Boulevard. Vehicles parked end to end line the narrow street, and even though Jarrod’s house is blocks away, the faint bass of club music pounds above the hum of the Sunfire’s engine.
“Windsor Square!” Bishop says. “You never told me this was a wine-and-appetizer party.”
I get lucky and find a spot only a block from Jarrod’s massive Tudor house. If I squint, I can even see the silhouettes of bodies moving in the backlit windows.
I cut the engine, and Bishop unfastens his seat belt.
“Come on,” he says. “I’m sure there’s plenty of bruschetta to go around. No need to be shy.”
“Ha-ha,” I deadpan.
“Oh, right.” Bishop nods sagely. “Forgot you flashed your ass to half of Los Angeles earlier. Not shy at all.”
I smack him on the arm, and he laughs.
“You go ahead, Bishop,” Paige says. “We’ll meet up with you in a minute.”
Bishop narrows his eyes.
“Girl talk,” she explains.
Paige? Girl talk? I almost burst out laughing, but Bishop just shrugs.
“Whatever. More Jäger for me.” He hops out of the car and saunters up the sidewalk, disappearing into Jarrod’s house.
Oh God. Here it comes.
“Care to explain to me what the hell is going on?” Paige asks.
I swivel in the seat to face her. “I’m giving him what he wants, okay?”
“Yeah, right. Of course. Good idea.” She barks a laugh, neurotically bobbing her crossed leg so that the whole car rocks.
“Paige—”
“Have you lost your mind?” she interrupts. “You’ve just chauffeured some crazy dude to a party where all your friends are.”
When she says it like that, it does sound pretty off the rails.
“We’re not staying long,” I reason.
She sears me with a look.
I sigh, facing forward again.
The sounds of the party come into focus. I wonder what Devon is doing at this moment, how he’s going to react when he sees me. My nerves stretch tight, and I tap my fingers on the steering wheel.
“Well, it’s obviously too late to leave now,” I say, breaking the silence.
“Is it?” Paige asks incredulously.
“I should at least get Bishop out of there. What if he’s murdering people or something?”
Okay, probably not the best argument.
“Look,” I say, facing her again. “I’m just going to go in quickly and check on things and then we’ll leave, okay?”
She rolls her eyes, as if she was expecting something like this to happen, and then pulls out her phone.
“What are you doing?” I ask.
“Texting Jessie.”
“Why?”
“Because she wanted an update on your dog, if you must know.” She taps at the screen.
“Dog? What dog?”
“Your dog is dying,” she says without looking up.
“I don’t have a dog.”
She glances up. “Oh, would you prefer I’d told her the truth?” She takes my horrified expression as an answer and returns to her typing. “Didn’t think so. He’s not going to make it, by the way. Poor Tripod. really should have laid off the thongs. But they were his favorite, and it wasn’t his fault you kept your underwear lying around the house all the time.”
What the …? I try to snatch the phone from Paige, but she pulls it close to her chest and grins. When the hell did she get so snarky? I watch, annoyed, as Paige taps away at her phone. She better not open her mouth about this at school.
I start to open the car door, but something niggles at the back of my mind, stopping me from leaving. I try to push the concern back, but it just shoves itself forward again, refusing to be ignored. Dammit. I swing around to face Paige again. “You can’t stay out here alone. Bishop might come back.”
“So what?” she says, but I can tell by the pause in her typing that she’s considering what I’ve said.
“You’re right,” I say. “You can probably handle Bishop alone. You can run fast, right? His legs are freakishly long, though.” I tap my chin with my finger. “You could always scream? Except that it might be hard to hear you over the noise of the party.”
Paige wrinkles up her nose at me, but she stows her phone in her purse and unbuckles her seat belt. I resist the urge to smile. And Bishop said cheerleaders aren’t smart.
Except that maybe he’s right. Because wasn’t this—the social suicide of being seen at a party with Paige—what I was just trying to avoid?
I give Paige an appraisal as we walk toward the house. She’s wearing a pair of ripped boyfriend jeans and a fitted wifebeater. It’s actually a good look on her. She should probably consider wearing her pj’s out more often.
We climb the spotlit steps that lead to the doors, which are framed with neatly trimmed bushes.
I open the doors and— Holy crap. How has this party not been busted up by the cops yet? The living room is crammed full of three hundred of Jarrod’s closest friends, a sea of bodies jumping, writhing, and swaying to the music that thumps from huge speakers set up in all corners of the room. There are red plastic cups everywhere, and a couple is practically doing it on the couch. Not to mention the air reeks of vomit. Jarrod’s neighbors must be out of town. Or in a really, really forgiving mood.
“Indie!” Some guy I vaguely recognize from the football team wraps his arm around my neck (really, it’s like a choke hold), sloshing his drink down the front of my shirt. “Hey, everyone! Indie made it!”
The party erupts into cheering and whistling, and I can’t help but smile, despite smelling even more like a whiskey distillery than when I left the concert. The guy finally lets go of my neck and stumbles off to join a group of guys doing shots at the minibar.
“Be right back,” I say to Paige. She leaps back from a drunken girl who nearly stumbles into her. And just like that, my fear of being seen with Paige vanishes entirely, because I’m now confident that if anyone saw us come in together, they won’t remember tomorrow.
I push through the crowd, toward the kitchen, craning my neck to look for Devon’s floppy blond waves. I finally arrive there with only two new scents (vodka and beer) added to my shirt.
And what the hell is this? Bishop leans against the stainless steel fridge, hands in his pockets, while no fewer than four girls circle him. Two I don’t recognize, but the other two are the Amy/Ashley twins. One touches his arm while the other bats her eyelashes at him. Have they been passing around hallucinogens at this party?
I scrutinize Bishop more closely. Longish hair, tattoos, leather—I guess he is good-looking. I mean, if I were drunk I might find him good-looking. In a bad-boy, poser kind of way.
He gives me a two-fingered salute, then goes back to flirting with the girls.
I suppose it’s good he’s not killing anyone. And why should I care what the stupid Amy/Ashley twins do? I don’t. There.
I turn away and spot Jarrod’s red hair over the top of a crowd of people near the keg.
“Jarrod!” I call out.
“Indie! Come do a keg stand.” He wobbles, holding out the black hose attached to the keg.
“Um, no thanks. Have you seen Devon around?”
He shrugs. “Nah. Hey, Andrew, wanna do a keg s-stand?”
Some guy stumbles up from behind me, and then Jarrod’s helping to hold up his legs.
I will never understand keg stands.
I check the dining room and sitting room without any luck, then go upstairs. It’s less crowded, but I still have to flatten myself against the wall to maneuver down the wide hallway. I pass the first bedroom—and seriously, who doesn’t close the door? Shielding my eyes from the writhing mass of skin on the bed, I continue down the hall. There’s a line at least a dozen people long coming from one door, which I guess is the bathroom. The next room I find is an office, which is surprisingly empty. That leaves only one room left. Down this wing, anyway.
I give the door a little tap, then crack it open. It’s dark, but moonlight slants in through the open windows and onto the king-sized four-poster. The sheets are rumpled over two bodies, which shift at the sound of me entering.
“Sorry!” I start to close the door.
“Indie?”
My breath hitches. Bianca? For some reason, instead of cowering, I throw the door open.
Bianca sits up, drawing the covers over her bare chest. I can’t see her face, just that her perfect hair is mussed.
“I’m so sorry,” she says.
“Sorry? Sorry for what?” I take a step into the room.
And that’s when I see the blond hair pressed against the pillow next to Bianca.
Devon.