“Guys, Mom said to be nice.” The oldest girl half-smiles at me but drops her face as soon as she sees my ripped-up sneakers.
Suddenly, I wish that my backpack, the only thing with me, was filled with helium, so I could float those twelve feet to the ceiling and away from these strangers.
The grown-ups come in, interrupting their comments and Mel puts her arm around me. “Jay, Mr. and Mrs. Carlisle are very excited to have you. You be a good boy, and I’ll check in soon, okay?”
I hang my head. I met Mel yesterday when she told me she was from “The State,” whatever that means, and that she was finding me a new place to live. This morning, she picked me up and took me for pancakes and french fries, and then brought me here. After everything you would think I’d be happy to move somewhere new — a fresh start. But not somewhere like this.
This isn’t the type of place that I pictured when she told me she found me a “home.” This isn’t a home, it’s a museum. I don’t belong here. I don’t fit into this perfect, little family in this perfect, giant house. What am I even supposed to say to these people? I can’t even walk through their house without my rattyshoes dragging dirt onto their pure white carpet. I’m used to feeling alone, but not when I’m surrounded by other people.
The youngest girl pulls the stuffed animal she is holding out from behind her back, as Mel turns back to the Carlisles. The toy, that I can now see is some sort of lamb, is worn, parts of its fluffy white fur now matted over time, the color of butter. It’s missing one eye, leaving a hole that has been roughly sewn shut and while one ear sticks straight out, the other now hangs down.
Holding the lamb against her body, the shabby stuffed animal stands out against the clear perfection of everything else — the faded yellow spots more obvious against the white of the little girl’s dress. The mismatched ears, the only thing here not carefully set. And yet, even so, I am the most misplaced thing in the room. At least the toy is well-loved. It’s wool raggedy from being hugged and held close and taken on real adventures. I, on the other hand, look tattered just because I am. Because, unlike the lamb, I have been left, rundown, and neglected. Because, unlike the lamb, I truly don’t belong — the black sheep in this place I’m now supposed to call home.
I pull up to Claire’s apartment and take one more deep breath before heading into her building. When I get to her door, I pause. There’s music playing from the apartment, and I can hear her on the other side singing along to Pink’sRaise Your Glass.I chuckle as I hear the lyrics. This girl is full of surprises. I’m tempted to sit here and listen to her belt out the rest of the song, but it’s 8:45 pm and if we’re late I might lose my job and my goddamn head to Zeke Monroe.
I knock loudly, all things considered, and hear her voice grow louder as she approaches the door. It isn’t lost on me that she doesn’t stop singing, and I love that she’s that comfortable with me and herself. She times it perfectly, opening the door as she sings the last words of the hook about being so serious, with a dramatic frown on her face.
I close myeyes and smile at the irony of the words. She couldn’t have planned this any better.
My eyes open and holy shit — she is fucking breathtaking. Her hair is pulled back on top of her head in a way that reminds me of the first day I saw her. She’s wearing more makeup than usual, but she still looks like herself — dark lashes, pink cheeks — incredible.
As she stops the music on her phone, I scan the rest of her. My God. Her dress is black and lands halfway up her thighs. The neckline rises and falls across the front in a heart shape where her chest is and two tiny straps hold it up around her shoulders. Her shoes are simple black heels that wrap around her ankle, and it’s only now that I realize she’s standing at almost my height for once.
“You look…”
She does a slow twirl and it’s only then that I see that her entire back is exposed, the cut of the dress dipping in a U shape to her hips. It’s tasteful but so fucking sexy, and I suddenly wouldn’t care if we we’re late. Shit, I wouldn’t care if we didn’t go at all.
I blow out a heavy breath instead of finishing my thought.
“I’ll take that as a compliment.” She smiles and runs back inside grabbing a gold-wrapped bottle of champagne off the island. She hands it to me as she uses both hands to pull the door shut and lock it behind her. Grabbing the bottle again, she links her arm through mine as naturally as if we’ve done it a hundred times before.
And despite her ease, my stomach flips at just her skin on mine.
26
Claire
Neon Nights is packed. We parked practically down the street just to avoid the chaos right out front, not that I mind it though. I am taking full advantage of the long walk hooked through Jay’s arm.
We stand in a line just to get in and when it’s our turn, we give the bouncer our name so he can check the list for Maddie’s party.
“Dawson,” I say.
He scans his list with the tip of his pen. I’m suddenly sweating for absolutely no reason because I know we’re supposed to be here. It’s like when I’m in airport security and all of a sudden I think,Oh my God, did I pack a gun?
“Claire Dawson, got it.” He hands me a wristband in highlighter yellow and turns to Jay.
“Errington.”
Once again his pen moves up and down his clipboard before it stops.
“Yep, Jamison Errington.” He hands Jay the same bracelet. “Have a good night you two.”
My head snaps to Jay whose brow is creased and ears are red.Jamison.Quick to end the moment, he places his hand on my lower back, a familiar touch from days before, and guides me through the door. I guess we will revisit that later.
Inside is even crazier than the front of the building. I must have forgotten what nightclubs are like because I am in total shock when I’m hit by a sea of sweaty people sloshing drinks in all directions. As if on instinct, Jay steps in front of me, a barrier between the chaos and me.He slips his fingers through mine, and the rough spots on his palms play memories of those same hands sliding up my thighs. My body pulses beneath the skirt of my dress, and I squeeze his hand just a little tighter.
The house lights are dim with LEDs flashing colors as we push our way through the crowd toward the neon sign that says VIP. A dance remix of Rihanna’sRude Boypounds through the speakers. We show the bouncer at the entrance our wristbands, and he steps aside to let us by. The VIP area is broken into sections, each one designated to a private party, with a large bar in the center. We both scan the room for any familiar face.
