He doesn’t speak, and when I get inside my place, slam the door in his face, and look through the peephole, he’s perched outside, his tall and broad frame taking up the entire view, that silver chain glinting against the sidewalk lights.
I should invite him in.
But I don’t.
Instead, I spend all night wide awake, wondering what Lance Calloway was like before he became the underground fighter at the Lye.
Chapter 6
Lance
Six Years Ago
Lovers’ Alcove.
Fitting name for a hidden waterfall in the forest of Verona County Park, but I guess I’m biased.
The one time I got caught with my pants down, I had taken Elaine Astolaire up to the spot in my car and fogged up the windows, and then other people followed suit.
What can I say, I’m a trendsetter.
It also helps that my father paid off the police to keep them from the area.
“If you’re going to be an embarrassment, I’d rather give you a place to do it without bringing shame to the entire family.”
Tonight, though, we might be pushing our luck.
The bonfire is roaring, flames licking up toward the sky and casting everything in shades of orange and gold.
My cousin Tyler’s truck is backed up to the water’s edge, tailgate down, speakers blasting some song I don’t recognize buteveryone else seems to know the words to, and his sister Rosalie is sitting on the back of it with a bottle of Fireball in her hand.
There’s a keg off to the left that I bribed my older brother to buy, and there are girls. Lots of them, scattered around the rocks like decorations at a party thrown specifically for me.
Which, technically, it is.
It’s my eighteenth birthday, after all.
“Calloway!”
I turn just in time to catch a red Solo cup to the chest, beer sloshing over my fingers. Tyler’s grinning at me, his arm slung around a girl I partnered with in chemistry sophomore year.
“You’re late to your own party, asshole.”
“Fashionably late,” I correct, raising the cup. “There’s a difference.”
Someone cranks the music louder, and Elaine catches my eye from where she’s stripping off her shirt in front of the bonfire.
I file that away for later. The night is young.
The air smells like smoke, cheap beer, and summer, and for a few hours, I don’t have to think about my father’s disappointed sighs or my mother’s tight-lipped silence or the fact that I’m eighteen years old and already the family fuckup.
Here, I’m not a disappointment.
I’m the main event. At least until Art shows up and becomes the most adored guy at the party.
Homecomingandprom king, the greedy asshole.
I make my way through the crowd, slapping hands and trading insults, stopping to talk with guys from Rosebrook Prep and flirt with girls from Verona County High who look at me like I’m something worth having. It’s easy. Natural.
