He shakes his head fast, gaze cast on the asphalt. He always hated disappointing me when we were kids. Not everything’s changed. “You look like shit. I’m saying this because I’m scared you’re going to end up like Jessie.” My throat feels thick, swollen with the feeling of helplessness that comes up every time I talk to him.
At the mention of his dead girlfriend his eyes lift and come to life.
“I live in a constant fucking state of fear that I’m going to get a phone call. Don’t do that to me, bro.”
His face cracks into an awkward smile and I almost find him in there, the brother he was before all this got started.
“I’m…I’m begging you to try rehab one last time.”
“Nah. Nah, man,” he says, shaking his head really fast and shifting from foot to foot. I look down and notice a deep laceration on his left foot.
“Just one last time. One more chance and I’ll never ask again.”
“You got the money? I need the money, little brother.”
He won’t even make eye contact. He’s already shut me out. More of the same. This is how it always goes with him. Depressing as shit.
Reaching into the back seat of the Jeep, I pull out a pair of brand-new, limited edition Nikes and hand them over. “Put these on first…and you need to have that cut looked at. It’s going to get infected.”
Brian quickly drops to the hard ground and jams his dirty, bleeding feet into the shiny, new kicks. Once he’s done tying them, he stands and holds out his dry cracked palm. I pull out two fifty-dollar bills and hold them up.
“Do not sell those kicks. Call me if you need anything.”
He nods. His blue eyes flicker to me and away, to the horizon. I place the bills in his palm and he crumbles them up, stuffs them in the front pocket of his jeans.
“Reynolds––everything alright?” Coach Becker’s voice breaks into our quiet moment.
“Yes, sir.”
I glance behind me for a split second and that’s all it takes for Brian to make a run for it. He’s wired, hopped up on meth, and after playing a tough game, I’m exhausted. I take off after him, booking down the grassy hill, but he easily leaves me in the dust. I watch him disappear down the rolling lawn that abuts the highway.
“Brian!” I yell. I don’t know why. All the screaming in the world hasn’t gotten through to him yet. I should know better by now.
Chapter 10
Alice
“Which one of you two wants to be designated driver?” Zoe asks me and Dora as we pour out of her car.
Dora and I exchange a look that says you do it and not because either of us was planning to get wasted tonight but because neither of us want to be responsible for driving a car that costs close to four years of our college tuition.
I glance at Blake and she raises her wrist and jangles her gold medical bracelet. “I don’t drive.”
“I’ll do it,” Dora pipes up and I breathe a sigh of relief.
Music can be heard over the busy traffic racing up and down Pacific Coast Highway. A heavy bass pours out of the house and fills the air around us, making my blood hum. Cars are parallel parked up and down the street, signaling the party is well underway.
Zoe insisted we come to this party. Insisted is putting it lightly; she practically dragged Dora and me by the hair and threw us into the car.
The only reason I’m here is because of what I witnessed at the end of the water polo game. One minute I’m laughing with the girls, having a great time, and the next I’m fighting tears. Because the look on his face, of utter devastation when he saw his brother standing at the side of the pool surrounded by people mocking him…that look split my chest wide open and ripped my heart out.
I’m worried. I know I shouldn’t be––he’s not mine to worry over. We barely know each other––and yet I can’t seem to stop.
Walking down the narrow street, we pass house after house crammed together side by side and hidden behind security walls. Each one bigger than the next.
We finally reach our destination and it’s not a house. It’s a freaking mansion––on the beach. Light pours out of every floor-to-ceiling window overlooking the road. People smoking loiter on the front steps. A group I recognize mill about the small patch of front lawn.
“Stop gawking. It’s only a house,” Zoe commands. Easy for her to say. She’s been around this all her life.
Blake pats my arm and smiles softly. “You’ll get used to it.”
“Doubt it,” I tell her as we file into the jam-packed foyer after Zoe.
“W-what’s that smell?” Dora demands to know, her face twisting in a disgusted grimace.
Zoe’s feet halt in their tracks. She glances over her shoulder with an expression of utter shock. “You can’t be serious?” Her face changes from dubious to confused. “Can you?”
“It s-stinks. I think someone got sprayed by a s-skunk. What’s there to joke about?”
“Were you raised in a time capsule from the eighteen hundreds? It’s pot, Ramos. You’ve never smelled pot before?”
Dora’s eyes practically bug out of her head and she swiftly pivots on her borrowed heels and turns to leave. Not fast enough, however. Catching her by the shoulders, Zoe stops her before she can make it down the front steps.
“My father’s a DEA agent!” Dora whisper-hisses. “I’ll get high off the secondhand fumes. We all will!”
“With any luck,” is Blake’s quick comeback and Zoe and I snicker.
On level ground Zoe has a good four to five inches on Dora. Tonight she’s wearing four-inch Louboutin booties with the spikes on them so the disparity is hilarious. Ducking down so they’re face-to-face, Zoe calmly says, “First, let’s scale down on the melodrama. Second, you’re not leaving, Red. You’re going to board that courage train and ride it all the way inside the party.”
Dora glares. There’s a moment of silence, in which Zoe feels compelled to add, “Do you want to be the 40-Year-Old Virgin? Is that on your vision board?”
Without another word, a sullen Dora drags her feet back into the house, a hand covering her mouth and nose.
“Outta the way, crutches coming through,” Blake yells as she splits the crowd. Her long braids swaying down her slender back. She’s wearing a body-hugging white t-shit dress that hits mid thigh and tan high-heeled sandals. The stark white against her brown skin makes her look like a living statue. Too good to be real. Necks snap as we follow her across the living room. She’s got so much natural, unintentional sex appeal that it’s impossible not to stare at her.
There’s so much to take in, my eyes don’t know where to look first. You could park a small airplane in this place it’s so big. This is definitely a party house. Wide-open spaces. Furniture sparse and large to accommodate the size of the guys who live here. Zoe said it belongs to one of the water polo players. Whoever he is he definitely wants for nothing.
A series of glass panels span the entire back of the house that overlooks the patio. All of them wide open. The crowd spills out around a pool lit up in orange, one half of Malibu U school colors, and down to the beach.
I’m gaping. I fully admit it. I’ve seen ridiculous displays of wealth. Living so close to New York City, it’s hard not to. This, however, is silly rich.
Lil Tjay’s Goat pumps loudly out of the state-of-the-art sound system. Bodies move, swaying to the beat. Arms wave in the air. Solo cups filled with alcohol slosh over the sides, spilling down shirts. Girls laughing. Guys shouting at an enormous wall-mounted television where a basketball game plays.
“This party is lit! Let’s head out back,” Zoe yells over the music. I can barely hear her. She motions us in the direction of the patio and ventures deeper into the crowd.
We find some open space the size of a postage stamp and park ourselves there. Dora fidgets with the short skirt Zoe made her wear, pulling on the hem, while her eyes dart around in wonder, not sure what to take in first. I’m almost as awestruck. Though I do a better job of concealing it.
“Incoming––mythical creature,” Zoe mutters through a fixed smile, the first time I’ve ever seen her look even remotely uncomfortable.
“Mythical creature?” I repeat with a curious glance at Blake.
“It’s a well-known fact that Brock Peterman is a virgin,” she explains, her lips tilting up on one side. “Every girl on campus is gunning for him.”
A guy approaches, a head taller than just about everyone else and therefore easy to spot. He’s wearing a faded blue Sharks Water Polo t-shirt, a deep tan, shorts, and flip-flops.
I’m starting to sense a trend here. Do any of these guys ever wear anything else? Is it a rich boy thing, or California thing?
“Well, I’m not,” I clarify. No matter how handsome he is. And that, he is––with intense, dark blue eyes and full lips that soften his overly angular features.
“N-neither am I,” Dora concurs.
“Me three,” Blake adds.
The only one conspicuously silent on the subject is Zoe who is presently surveying the crowd in an attempt to pretend she didn’t hear us. Her face grows tighter the closer he gets.
“Zoe––” Peterman calls out and Zoe’s head whips around, her shy smile blossoming into a full one. I’ve never seen her look so…vulnerable. Or genuinely happy for that matter. Which answers some of my questions and produces more.
“Hey, P.K.”
Set in a severe line, his lips part to reveal optic white teeth while his warm gaze takes its sweet time moving over her face. “Wanna go over notes tomorrow?”
His deep, smooth voice makes something as boring as studying sound sexy. And going by the look on Zoe’s face, I’m pretty sure I just heard her designer panties go up in flames.
A beat later he seems to recall that they are not in a bubble. His indigo eyes move to me and Dora and a question mark appears in them. One Zoe is quick to answer. “Brock, this is Dora and Alice. You know Blake.”