“Careful,” someone warns. “You want to end up like Marco?”
“No one knows what happened to Marco,” someone else replies.
“That’s the point.”
I swallow.
Becca’s already halfway gone. I watch guys’ heads turn as she passes, their eyes snagging on the sliver of skin between her cropped denim and the mesh sleeves that cling to her arms. She’s an open book, leaving nothing to the imagination.
I’m the odd one out, I might as well be wearing a sign that saysboring. This was supposed to help me forget. I shake my head, trying to push out Ivan’s warnings tangled up with thoughts of Jax.I came here on purpose and I can leave whenever I want,I remind myself. But if I came to have fun—to forget Jax—I’m going to need to try harder. I slip the hair tie from my wrist and pull my hair up, baring my neck andshoulders. I turn back to Whistle, lifting my chin. “So,” I say, raising my voice over the music, “how about a tour?”
His eyes travel from my throat down to my hips and back up again. “You sure, ballerina?”
“Yeah,” I say, leaning in just enough to make it an invitation. “You look like exactly the right kind of trouble to show me around.”
He peels himself off the girl beside him. She sags with relief, and he doesn’t give her a second glance. Whistle steps in close and drapes an arm around my shoulders in something that might pass for protective if I didn’t feel like I’d just become his property. His body blocks me from the rest of the lot, steering without asking.
“So…” I say, nodding at the strip of red tape hanging loose from his jeans pocket. “What’s that for?”
His mouth quirks. “To tie the offerings.”
My spine tightens. “The offerings?”
He chuckles like I’ve asked something adorable. “That’s the whole point of tonight. Didn’t anyone tell you what you were walking into?”
I shake my head.
“Poor little ballerina.” He pats my arm, condescending and amused. “Relax. We only take volunteers.”
“Volunteers,” I echo.
He turns his head. “We only take who wants to be taken,” he says, his voice darkening. “The ones who are begging for it, even if they don’t know how to ask.”
The way he says it makes it sound like a favor.
I don’t answer, but he grins anyway. “Come on. Let me show you around.”
He pulls me through the crowd. You can barely move in here. Some skaters are just shoving their way through, using the parked cars to push off. All the usual groups are here—themotorcycle guys are parked together, of course—but mostly it’s just a sea of people trying to get drunk or find someone to hook up with.
I see one guy leaning over the fence, practically in this girl’s face, while she’s looking everywhere but at him. A few feet away, a couple is going at it against a car, the guy’s hand is up her skirt and her bare ass is just hanging out for anyone to see.
People are doing shots, smoking, passing bottles around. Just like Becca said, Tar City at its finest. And it’s not like I think I’m too good for it or anything, it’s just… it’s different when you don’t have actual friends to be an idiot with. I’m actually surprised Lou isn’t here somewhere, I should’ve asked if he was coming.
Near the edge of the lot, someone lights something that definitely isn’t a cigarette. It smells like burning garbage and sugar. They pass a little metal pipe around, and you can see it glow orange when someone takes a hit.
“College kids,” Whistle says, following my gaze. “They come back for this.”
“For what exactly?” I ask.
He shrugs. “To pay back. To enjoy themselves.”
We pass a truck with its windows fogged over from the inside.
“See? Just a party.”
The Pit doesn’t seem to mind our trespassing. Whistle guides me closer, right to the edge of the fence line. A girl steps into our path, blocking us. She’s older than me, or I’m just assuming because she is wearing a white tank top instead. Her mascara has melted into dark crescents under her eyes.
“Hey,” she says, holding up her wrists in offering. “Can you tie me?”
