NOW
Dylan’s party was in full swing when Daisy arrived, flanked by Mia Wilson and Emma Menendez. It had been easy to fall back into the comfortable fold of their friendship, like slipping into a tepid bath she’d left sitting for a few hours. Being a pariah had been tolerable but hardly enjoyable, so Daisy vowed to appreciate the girls’ companionship. And she sincerely appreciated the beer that Emma’s older brother had bought for them. Daisy had liberated a cannabis cookie from her parents’ stash, and the girls had shared it on the way over. Wandering through Dylan’s stunning, modern, lakeside home, they were all pleasantly buzzed.
She felt oddly comfortable surrounded by her peers. These kids would turn on her in an instant, she knew that firsthand, but for now, she felt a sense of belonging. Of course, it might be the weed and the beer allowing her to drop her guard, but Daisy knew she was where she should be. She had not heard from David since the disastrous sleepover. She had, however, heard from Frances Metcalfe. The woman’s concern, while initially appreciated, was now crossing the line into nagging. The texts were frequent:
Have you heard from David?
No
Promise me you won’t see him again.
I won’t.
You won’t promise or you won’t see him again?
I won’t see him again
God . . . poor Marcus. When he was a teen, his mother would have him on a very short leash. But then again, Marcus Metcalfe would probably grow up to be one of those nerdy kids who spent weekends locked in their rooms playing RPG games and chugging energy drinks. Frances’s attentions almost made Daisy appreciate her parents’ indifference.
As always, the epicenter of the festivities was the kitchen. Dylan, Liam, and a gaggle of athletic boys occupied the modern, open-plan room, interspersed with Tori and her popular crew. Every kid had a drink: a bottle of beer, a vodka cooler, or a red plastic cup full of smuggled liquor. Daisy sipped the bitter beer Emma’s brother had provided, enjoying its numbing effect as they sidled into the jammed space.
Tori noticed her first. “Daisy! You came!” She seemed disproportionately happy to see her. Or maybe she was just drunk. Liam’s eyes found Daisy then. Maggie Waters was attached to his side, suckered onto him like a pretty, teenage leech, but he offered Daisy a smile, a slight toast with his red cup. Daisy smiled back and held up her beer. It was appropriate that they acknowledge each other. They had had sex, after all: normal, but significant, full-on intercourse. The popular kids had gone from outraged to impressed. Suddenly, their host was beside her.
“I’m glad you came,” Dylan said, smiling down at her. He was attractive—blond and square-jawed, with broad shoulders and dark eyelashes. He played football, too. Or maybe he played baseball. Daisy had never gone in for that all-American type, but she could feel the covetous eyes of Tori and her crew on their interaction. She should be flattered by this handsome boy’s attentions.
“Great house,” she said.
“Yeah. It’s a good party pad.”
“Where are your parents?”
“Hong Kong.” He tapped her beer with his red cup. “Can I get you something stronger? Vodka? Tequila?”
“Why not?” She may as well try to enjoy herself. Just because she felt more mature than these drunk, silly kids didn’t preclude her having a little fun.
Dylan hustled toward the makeshift bar set up near the sink and returned with a red cup half-full of alcohol. Daisy took it and drank it down, her throat burning, her body shivering with revulsion. It tasted gross, but it was better than a pink vodka cooler. When she finished, she wiped her hand across her lips and looked up at Dylan. He grinned. “I like a girl who knows how to party.”
“That’s me.”
He took her cup again and refilled it (tequila or vodka? she had no idea, but it was disgusting), and led her to the living room. It was dark. Kids were dancing to some EDM she didn’t recognize. The air was humid and close, heavy with the scent of sweat and pot and hair product. Dylan’s hands on her hips guided her into the thick of the gyrating teens. Daisy swayed a little, sipping her drink. It was crowded; she was stoned, and drunk, and overheated. Dylan was so close to her, his solid, warm body pressing against hers. His breath smelled like the booze she was drinking. Dylan’s hands moved to her waist, pulling her toward him. She closed her eyes and went with it.
His lips were soft but insistent, the patchy stubble on his chin rougher than Liam’s, more masculine, almost manly, but not quite. Her fingers drifted along his biceps, his muscular chest. He was big and strong; he could take care of her. . . . When he grabbed her hand and practically dragged her toward the stairs, his forcefulness was sexy.
He took her to a bedroom—tidy and spacious, with a king-size bed and a cozy seating area: his parents’ room, obviously. They stumbled inside and resumed their kissing. Dylan didn’t push her toward the made bed (apparently, he had some respect for his mother and father’s furnishings), but navigated her toward the cream-colored love seat. They didn’t sit, but leaned against it, hands and mouths exploring each other.
She heard a zip and then Dylan’s hands moved to her shoulders. He stopped kissing her and smiled a drunken, lascivious smile as he pressed her down. Daisy held her ground. She tried to squirm from his grip, to kiss him again, to distract from his intention, but the pressure on her shoulders increased. An intense wave of anger and revulsion swept over her. She didn’t want this, not with him. She pulled away.
“What’s wrong?”
“I don’t want to do that.”
“Why not?”
“I just don’t, okay?” Her stomach churned, disgust and inebriation threatening to manifest in vomit. She had to leave. She stumbled toward the door.
“Seriously?” He scoffed in her wake. “You’ll have dirty, crazy sex with Liam but you won’t even give me a BJ?”
She turned back to look at him: handsome, popular, arrogant. Daisy could respond, could stand up for herself, but why? This boy’s opinion of her was irrelevant. And she was too drunk to mount a proper defense.
“Sorry.”
She yanked open the door and scurried down the stairs.
* * *
Outside, it was cold and dark and raining, but it was still a relief from the clammy, sweaty, hormone-filled interior. She huddled into her coat as she trudged up Dylan’s winding driveway toward the main road. She wasn’t exactly sure where she was, but when she emerged from the forested enclave that concealed the opulent home, she would get her bearings. She fingered the reassuring outline of her phone in her back pocket.
She already knew what she was going to do. In fact, she may have known the moment Dylan unzipped his fly. She had been stupid to entertain the boy’s attentions, stupid to have danced with him, kissed him, let him lead her upstairs. . . . There would be social repercussions; a return to teen exile was likely. But Dylan wasn’t her biggest mistake. Her biggest mistake was pretending she belonged here, with these children. She didn’t. She was done playing their game.
At the road was a mailbox, an ornate brick structure with the address posted prominently above the letter slot. Pulling out her phone, Daisy took a fortifying breath. She typed:
Can you come get me?
The response was almost instant.
Send address
Daisy was a liar. She had made a promise to Frances Metcalfe that she had never intended to keep. If the woman found out, she would be upset, angry, even afraid for Daisy’s safety. But Frances would never know. And in that moment, Daisy felt only relief and anticipation.
David was coming for her.