Dylan has never gotten my name right, despite meeting me at least half a dozen times.
“Oh, right. Sorry.”
“Where is he? Inside the house or out by the pool?”
Dylan runs his fingers down the doorframe, eyes glassy with whatever mix of alcohol and drugs is pumping through his system.
“Who?”
“Hayes,” I bite out.
“Oh, that’s right. Now I remember.” He snaps his fingers like he’s just solved some complicated puzzle. “You’re Hayes’s little friend. So… you here all alone tonight?”
He traps a loose strand of my hair between his fingers, twirling it slowly with a slimy little wink. I hold in a groan. Dear God. Talking to him is a complete waste of time.
“Never mind. I’ll just find him myself.”
I try to walk around the guy again, but he won’t budge.
“You know the price of admission, right?” He gives me a sleazy grin. “Door tax is a kiss. House rules, babe.”
“Not a chance.”
I shift my weight, channeling every karate and boxing class I’ve ever taken, then bring my knee up sharply into the inside of his thigh. Not enough to do real damage. Just enough to make him yelp and instinctively step back.
“Ow—what the hell, Alison?Watch it!”
While he’s off balance, I duck under his arm, pivot, and slip past him through the doorway before he can recover.
“See ya,babe!” I call out sweetly, blowing him a kiss as I go.
Inside the house, the party’s already in full swing. The living room is packed, vibrating with energy and chaos. Music blasts from expensive speakers, so loud one of the oversized photos of Hayes’s father posing with his beloved racehorses hangs crooked on the wall. A keg’s been shoved up against the leather couches, and Tony and some of Hayes’s other teammates are taking turns doing keg stands, beer spraying across the hardwood floor. Surrounding them is a circle of pretty girls with Instagram-ready smiles, cheering them on like it’s a sporting event.
On the other side of the room, the basketball team plays beer pong on top of the custom-designed pool table. I wince as a cup tips over, beer spilling dangerously close to the stainless-steel cable pockets. Hayes’s father would have a coronary if he saw this.
I can’t believe Hayes’s parents are still gone. Especially Kora. She’s always back from Greece by the time school starts.
I’m not allowed to call her Mrs. Vassilios—just Kora.
She’s one of those effortlessly elegant, impossibly cool moms. A stunning, statuesque blonde, all sharp cheekbones and long, flowing limbs. Kora is like a supermodel who stepped off the runway and into reallife. Her flawless skin looks ageless, like she could be 21 or 51, and she’s always draped in the latest European fashions.
Yet, somehow, on top of all that beauty and wealth, she’s also kind and unbelievably generous. The sort of person who remembers your favorite tea and stocks it in her cupboard just for you.
Hayes’s mother has always been a steady presence in my life, like a second mother. When we were little, her chauffeur, Niccolò, would drive us all around town in her gleaming silver Rolls-Royce. Just Hayes, me, and Kora. She went everywhere with us. School carpool. Junior high dances. Karate classes.
She was the first to notice me lingering near Mr. Vassilios’s horses, watching with silent longing whenever Hayes and I played outside near the paddocks. Without asking, she somehow knew what I secretly wanted and convinced her husband to let me ride Steopethe, their oldest, gentlest gelding.
From that very first time, I was hooked. I’ve been riding ever since.
Kora also single-handedly saved my eighth-grade graduation.
Our families were supposed to attend the ceremony together, but everything fell apart when Mom showed up at Hayes’s house in a tie-dyed caftan with neon tassels and wooden clogs. My mother has never blended in with the designer-clad moms of Laguna Hills—not like Kora, who wears crisp pantsuits to PTA meetings and tasteful cocktail dresses to schoolgalas. Mom’s tastes have always been more eccentric. Colored scarves. Long flowing skirts from bohemian thrift shops. Crochet clothing.
I’d been mortified.
I ran upstairs and hid in Hayes’s closet, refusing to come out. These days, I try my best not to care what people think. But back then? I wanted to disappear.
Kora swooped in and worked her magic, convincing my mom to borrow one of her chic silk dresses and a pair of Chanel ballet flats, somehow without offending Mom or getting me grounded. Kora would’ve made a terrifyingly effective diplomat. She knows how to bend a situation to her will without anyone realizing she’s the one pulling the strings.
