Page 71 of Mad Girl

“Willoughby’s.”

“That guy again?” He rolled his eyes. “You know Nic will lose his shit if he finds out.”

“How will he find out? Do you plan on telling him?”

Michael pulled a face. “Don’t be ridiculous. How are you getting there?”

“Driving.”

He shook his head. “I’ll drive—and I’m going with you.”

I turned around. “I don’t want you tagging along if you’re going to watch me the whole time.”

“Watch you do what?” he asked, eyes narrowed, arms still crossed over his chest. “What do you plan on doing at this party?”

“I plan to hang out with Willoughby. Is that a problem?”

Michael stared at me, his gaze briefly flitting over my dress again as he pushed off the wall. “Nope. Let me know when you’re ready, and we’ll go.”

On the way to Willoughby’s, I received a new picture of you, carrying Rhys, his chunky little body held close to your chest. He held a dimpled hand to his mouth, gnawing on one finger, smiling. While you grinned big, like the proud uncle you were. “Oh my God,” I squealed, clutching my heart. “Look at them. Aren’t they the cutest?”

Michael glanced at the picture. “Yeah. Really cute.”

When we arrived at Willoughby’s, his beach house buzzed with music, people everywhere, bodies packed tight. We stepped inside together, Michael’s hand pressed to the small of my back. Someone stopped him right away.

“Michael Harris.” The guy greeted him with one of those forearm-bumps you guys give each other. “I haven’t seen you since graduation, man. How’ve you been?”

I walked on, meandering through the crowd, leaving Michael behind. That friend of Willoughby’s blocked my path: Rory Hamilton. Auburn hair and freckles. Big and muscular. Clean-cut. He seemed nice enough, but something about him rubbed me the wrong way. “Elliot Bancroft. What are you doing here? Your dad know you’re out?”

You see, Casey—that’s the kind of stuff people said to me. That’s how obvious it was that my dad kept me on lockdown.

“He doesn’t, no,” I said, staring blankly at him. “Can you tell me where Willoughby is?”

Rory made a big show of looking around. “I’m not sure. Why don’t we get you a drink, then I’ll help you look for him?”

I followed Rory into the kitchen, where he handed me a red cup filled with pink punch. It tasted like pink lemonade. Sickly sweet, but with a bite. Wrinkling my nose, I set it down.

Nearby, I spotted another familiar guy from my class, leaning against the counter: Greer Johnson. “Wow, Bancroft,” he said, raking his eyes down my body. “No wonder your dad keeps you locked up so tight.”

Their casual remarks about my life rankled, so I played into it.

“Actually,” I said, “he keeps me locked up because I’m crazy.”

Rory laughed. But Greer said, “Crazy, how?”

“Oh, you don’t want to know. I’m seriously fucked up.”

“I was there when you stabbed Michael Harris at your birthday party,” Greer said, blonde eyebrows raised, “and I can honestly say I’ve never witnessed anything more fucked up than that.” He paused to look me over again. “But you don’t seem so crazy now.”

I shrugged. “Appearances can be deceiving.”

“Yeah?” Greer said with a smile, his pale blue eyes locked with mine. “Crazy can be fun. Why don’t we go somewhere and you can show me?”

“Oh, no,” I said. “You wouldn’t be able to handle it.”

“Handle you?” Greer laughed. “You’d be surprised.”

Greer looked at me the way a cheetah does just before it pounces on a gazelle: predatory. It sent a tingle racing down my spine—and not the good kind.