Vīgintī octō

After Poe's announcement, I took it as a sign that I should probably have a little more alcohol in my system before making my way downstairs. We all threw two more shots back before re-entering the party with as much grace as a herd of elephants. We surprised no one with our entrance as we stumbled down the stairs cloaked in drunken laughter.

Those who have been to my house over the years are more comfortable making themselves at home downstairs as Brock and the football jocks start clearing the clutter off of my countertop; exchanging vases of lilies and decorative jars for pyramids of red solo cups- the universal beer glass.

As fun as beer pong sounds, I'm not ready to talk to Brock yet. I still don't even know what to say to him. After Oakley knocked him out in the hallway after the dance we've more or less steered clear of one another. I can only assume he's here tonight to save face. I didn't tell anyone what happened and we all know there's no way that he told his friends. He's probably just here so he doesn't have to explain why we're not currently speaking with one another. To be honest, part of me is glad because I'm losing patience for the mundane frequency of high school drama.

Oakley snakes his arm around my back, letting his hand rest possessively on my hip, causing my head to jolt to the side. I can't tell if he's just doing that to keep Brock off my back or if he's actually feeling me. I let my gaze bore into his while I try to read what's lingering below the surface, but my blood alcohol level prevents me from doing anything so meaningful, and it's getting harder as the warmth in my belly extends out to my extremities as the alcohol works its wat through my veins.

"Wanna dance?" he asks, turning his head to the side and shouting into my ear. Obviously, someone has found their way to Dad's sound system he has set up in the living room. Best one in town, he always said. Gratefully no one has tried to test its limits tonight because I wouldn't be surprised if it really is the best one in town.

A grin curved my lips as I toss a wink in Oakley's direction before slipping my hand into his and tugging him toward the center of the living room where several couples had already started to bump and grind against one another to the beat of the music.

Once we reach the center of the crowd, I stand across from Oakley, leaving enough space between us that we could both move freely, but he surprises me by tugging me against his chest, moving his hand back to its place on my hip as he begins to move against me.

The hardness of his body against my more feminine curves is all man, drying my mouth and wettening my panties in equal measure. Has he always looked this good? I mull that over as my head begins to swim. The four shots we took upstairs began to make their presence known in earnest as my heart rate picks up from the way my body sways against the beat of the music.

The song switches to an upbeat pop number that has been dominating the airwaves since the beginning of the summer. It's not my favorite, by any means, but it seems to appease the masses of my generation. I have to admit that when my belly is full of booze it's more appealing than usual.

Bodies filter in and out of the living room and throughout the house as one song flows into the next, barely catching my attention. I'm completely entranced by the man in front of me, and the look in his eyes that is purely feral. A grin teases the corners of his mouth as he assesses me with a look that seems primal in nature. His body cries out for what it wants, the same as mine is doing in return.

I feel a drop of sweat as it begins rolling down my back, drawing my attention to the fact that we've been dancing for quite some time. The temperature of the room has shifted slightly. Not the measure of the air surrounding us, but the social temperature. Eyes are glazed. Boys are more handsy with their dates. Jocks are all yelling like their mouths are attached to a loudspeaker. The laughter seems thicker and more pointed.

We're drunk.

That was the goal for the night so that fact in and of itself doesn't bother me, but the amount of time it takes me to remember the fact that I am responsible for this house should be a bit alarming, and it is. Law's voice telling me not to have a party echoes through my mind, bringing the concern back to the forefront of my subconscious.

"Let's go get some water," I say into Oakley's ear loud enough that he would be able to hear me over the thumping bass. He gives a sharp nod in acknowledgment before pulling me from the crowd of high schoolers still writhing to the music, their foreheads sweat-slicked and their wide eyes glazed with a mix of lust and booze.

Stepping into my kitchen, I'm momentarily surprised by the sight of Brock without his shirt on in my kitchen. It's not that he isn't wearing a shirt; all of the guys are shirtless now, their t's tucked into the back pocket of their jeans before flagging down behind them. What's surprising to me is that Brock is in my kitchen. The time I spent pressed up against Oakley distracted me so far from what was happening here and now that I completely forgot that he was here. I also completely forgot that the two of us are on opposing sides. The memory of the way he treated me at the dance flits through my peripheral in bits and pieces.

I follow Oakley around the breakfast bar in the middle of the kitchen, grabbing two red solo cups from a stack on the countertop before pouring ice water into our glasses from a pitcher in the fridge. I leave it out on the counter, not so drunk that I'm unable to think of the fact that my fellow partygoers might also need some fluid at this point in the evening.

"Have you talked to him yet?" Oakley's voice draws me from my wandering thoughts about the best way to hydrate my friends.

"Who?"

The corner of his mouth twitches with amusement before he specifies. "Brock. Has he said anything to you since that night at the dance?"

I shake my head, tipping my head back as I let the cold water course down my throat, cooling the warmth the alcohol had created. I run my tongue across my bottom lip to catch a stray drop of water before answering his question out loud. "No. I'm actually surprised he's here."

Oakley tosses his head from one side to the other while he considers something, but I'm not sure what. "I'm not surprised he's here."

"You're not?"

He shakes his head from side to side. "He's obsessed with you, Sunday. You have to have noticed that by now. I don't think he's done trying just yet."

I glance across the room to Brock, catching him watching me. He darts his eyes away as soon as he sees me looking, so at least he's trying to pretend he's not trying to be creepy. Somehow I would be more unnerved if he didn't. I don't like thinking too much about Brock and what his focus on me means.

The one thing about living in a town like Salem is that people tend to stay here, meaning that I know most of these people well, having gone to school with them for years at this point. We've grown up together, and the idea that Brock and I were end game began being drilled into our heads at a relatively young age. Both the pinnacle of popularity for our certain gender of the crowd, it seemed like a foregone conclusion that we would end up together. While the expectation never used to bother me, my feelings have changed recently. I have changed recently.

"Oak!" A voice yelling from the entryway draws our attention in that direction where Oakley's new female friend that has blown into town is slicing through the crowd in our direction.

Good.