When a frat party takes a turn
The bass from the speakers is a heavy, thumping rhythm that vibrates right through the floorboards, matching the reckless tempo of my heart. I sprawl back against the worn leather of the couch, one arm draped along the back, a red solo cup dangling loosely from my fingers. I’m not even tasting the cheap beer anymore; I’m just trying to numb the static in my head.
I keep my eyes on the circle, on the spinning glass, forcing a bored, arrogant smirk onto my face. It’s a mask I’ve worn for three years. I see her—Kay Steel—sitting across from me. She looks composed, guarded, those emerald eyes unreadable as she watches the bottle slow down. She has no idea how much it kills me to sit this close and act like she’s nothing. How much I have to push her, tease her, drive her away just so I don't do something stupid like admit I’ve been obsessed with her since freshman seminar.
The bottle wobbles, tips, and finally stops. The neck points straight at me.
My smirk falters for a fraction of a second before I lock it down, fixing her with a cool, challenging stare. I lean forward, resting my elbows on my knees, closing the distance between us just to see if she’ll flinch.
“Well, well,” I say, my voice low and rough, cutting through the noise. “Looks like you finally got lucky, Steel. Or maybe you just have terrible aim.”