Half an hour in, what was funny became annoying. People bumping into us, guys reeking of beer trying to drag us onto the dance floor . . . and then, to top it off, someone suggested a “truth or dare” game. You get picked to answer a super personal question, and if you refuse, you’re punished. Usually by taking a shot or kissing someone.
It was easy for Martina. She’s engaged to an actual prince, so being off-limits gave her a free pass.
Me? I used the excuse that I’d never played and would just watch a few rounds.
At first, I’ll admit, it was kind of funny. But then they decided to switch to strip poker—which sealed the deal. We were leaving.
“I have to pee first,” she says as we slip out of the main room.
The hallway’s packed. Honestly, the whole apartment reeks of alcohol.
Sure, I didn’t love spending my entire teenage life in a convent school, but this? This is way over the line for me.
“We should’ve gone to Café Constant for dinner instead, Lilly. By now we’d be full, laughing, and—bonus—nowhere near a bunch of drunk idiots.”
“I think we were born old, Martina.”
“Well, there’s a bright side: I got plot ideas for like three new books from this mess of a party.” Martina writes romance novels—and she’s good. She uses a pen name so her family and her fiancé’s family won’t find out, since her books are full of steamy scenes.
“Dark romance plots, you mean? Because we’ve seen everything but love tonight.”
“Please, I can turn any lemon into lemonade. I’m starting a whole series about douchebag frat boys—based on tonight’s cast of characters.”
“Fallenfrat boys?” I smirk.
“Would so work as a title,” she laughs.
“Who’s going to use the bathroom first?” I ask when we reach what looks like a powder room.
“Oh, come on, Lilly. This shy pee thing of yours is ridiculous. But since you’re the modest one, guess you’ll have to wait a little longer.”
Martina has barely shut the door when a guy who looks like a literal wall of muscle walks up to me. I force a weak smile even though I’d rather disappear—because I know who he is: the host’s brother, Bastien. A womanizing rugby player who invited me to “see his room” after about five minutes of conversation earlier.
“Hey, Lillyana,” he says. His French accent would be cute if it wasn’t soaked in whiskey breath.
“Hey,” I mutter, glancing behind me, silently begging Martina to come out.
“So . . . you finally decided to take me up on that offer?”
“What?”
“To check out my room. Why else would you come down this hallway?”
“My friend’s in the bathroom.”
“Oh, that’s adorable. Look, you don’t have to play coy. I know you’re into me too.”
“I’m really not. Back off.” I push at his chest as he leans down, trying to kiss me, but it’s useless. He doesn’t even budge. Instead, he wraps an arm around my waist.
“Let her go, you giant!” Martina bursts out of the bathroom, yelling.
“Two of you? No problem. I can handle it.” He’s totally wasted, but that doesn’t excuse being a total jerk.
“Let me go.”
“You heard her,” Martina snaps. “Let go of my friend or you’ll regret it.”
For a second, I wonder if she’s drunk too. There’s no way we’re fighting off a guy that size.
