“Yikes,” I say with a grin. “Maybe? If you want me to?”
“We want you to,” he says.
“Oh, boy,” Wyatt groans under his breath. “Here we go.”
“We start with small dares to warm up,” Damian explains, “but eventually each person has to pull off one good dare. The rules are: no backing down, nothing that can actually hurt anyone, nothing that leaves a scar.”
Jake adds, “You can be embarrassed, you can be scared, you can’t be harmed.”
Ryder tops up our whiskey cups again and then screws the lid on the bottle tight and lies it sideways on the floor between the beds. “Jake goes first,” he says.
“Says who?” Jake protests.
“Says me,” answers Ryder, as if that settles it.
And it does. Jake chuckles and leans over the side of the bed. The tendons in his throat flex as he reaches and flicks the bottle with his fingers.
It spins, glass whispering over the threadbare carpet. The neck swings past Damian, past Wyatt, past me, then slows and comes to a stop pointing squarely at Ryder.
“Hell yes,” says Jake. “All right, boss. Ease-in dare.”
Ryder arches a brow. “Try me.”
“I dare you,” Jake says, pointing at the cluster of cups, “to drink your whiskey…then Wyatt’s…then Max’s.”
Ryder huffs a short laugh, picks up his own cup, and throws it back. His throat works. I love the clean line of his jawbone through the scruff of his beard and the pronounced Adam’s Apple as he tilts his head back. He reaches for Wyatt’s next, then plucks mine out of my hand, knocking each one back without pausing.
By the time he sets my cup down, his eyes are a shade darker, a flush rising along his neck, but he just looks at Jake with ayou got megrin on his lips. Then he leans forward, braces one hand on the carpet, and spins the bottle.
It whirls between us, wobbling, until it slows and stops, pointing at Jake.
Damian laughs. “Ah…karma.”
Jake grimaces. “Traitorous bottle.”
Ryder smiles, slow and menacing. “All right,” he says. “Fair’s fair. Same to you. Three cups of whiskey.” He picks up the bottle and opens it, lining up the cups he just drained, and refilling them.
Jake groans and picks up each cup in turn, swallowing hard, coughing once between each.
When he slams the last empty cup down, his eyes are watering. “Okay,” he croaks. “Fuck everybody at this sleepover.”
He wipes his mouth with the back of his hand, still coughing a little, and grabs the bottle and recaps it, lying it on the floor.
The bottle spins faster this time, a blur of glass and reflected lamplight. It slows, slows, then comes to rest with its neck aimed at Damian.
Jake’s grin turns wicked. “Oh, good, my favorite.”
Damian spreads his hands. “Hit me.”
“All right, Voss.” Jake points toward the door. “You have to go outside totally naked, knock on a random door, say ‘Happy Hellbent Night,’ and come back.”
Ryder lets out a bark of laughter, Wyatt too, but my eyebrows just shoot up in shock.
“You’re going to get us kicked out,” Ryder says, but he’s still laughing.
Wyatt shakes his head. “If you get arrested, you two are on your own.”
But Damian pushes off the bed, stretching. His t-shirt rides up and I get a flash of hard, cut muscle and ink, the low line of his abdomen disappearing into his waistband.
