I roll my eyes and open the door to Jason’s SUV.
One of the other zombie football players coughs. “Since none of usknewGabby was your sister, Ben, we should totally be able to call dibs. Fuck! Stop hitting me.”
I’m not sure who smacked him, because some of my Marie Antoinette extensions get in my eyes, but by the time I peel them off my face, Jason is back and draping his arm—the one not holding a tray of gas station nachos—over my shoulders.
“Hey, guys! Great game today!”
Irritation crawls over my skin, but he doesn’t notice my lack of enthusiasm. He just keeps rolling with the ass-kissing extravaganza.
“That forty-yard pass you drilled into the end zone in the fourth? What a play, Kingston. I’m still freaking out about that.”
“Thanks, man.”
A deep sigh escapes me.
Riderwasamazing today. I can’t even pretend I didn’t catch part of the game, but I’m not about to gush over him and let his head get any bigger.
“I’m going to let you guys chat, but I’m freezing.” I yank the door open again and crawl in, trying my best to not flash my ass to the football team.
A full ten minutes later, Jason joins me. “We’re in luck. The next party is across the street from you.”
Jason’s only twenty-three, but that qualifies as a full-grown man, right? Why does he still want to party with college kids?
“I’m going to pass. I have a terrible headache.” One hundred percent true. “And I have an early morning.” I have to get to Rise ’N Grind by six to make a boatload ofempanadas.
“Aww, babe. Really?”
Something about this “babe” nickname makes me cringe, and now that I’m facing the prospect of him dropping me off, I can’t help but wonder if he’s going to try to kiss me goodnight. He didn’t last time, thank God.
And shouldn’t I want to kiss a guy I’m interested in?
The fact that I don’t tells me everything I need to know.
There was a time I lived for thepossibilityof kissing Rider. Sad as that sounds.
Thankfully, Jason’s so psyched to hang out with the football team, he barely gives me a second glance when we pull up to my house and I mention he doesn’t need to walk me in. He has to find parking anyway, and there are ten million cars on our street with a stream of people headed toward the Stallion Station.
It’s still early, only eleven, so I’m not surprised when I find my house empty. Ramona hasn’t been around lately, and Sienna was hanging out with friends.
I’m suddenly exhausted, probably from shivering for the last several hours, so I don’t bother taking off my costume before I pull on my fluffy white robe and toss back two Advil. I’m in bed sixty seconds later, ready to cleanse myself of this day.
Except there’s a steady beat of music coming from across the street that seems to get louder when I close my eyes. My room is in the front of the house, unfortunately, and I hear all of the noise on the street.
An hour goes by.
Two.
Three.
The revelers traipse through my yard. Puke in the bushes. Pee in the street. I know this because there’s always a drunk sidekick who yells out a play-by-play. Like, “Dude, are you really peeing against the fire hydrant?” Insert loud hiccup. Or, “Don’t yak through your nose next time. It’ll hurt less.”
My head is throbbing so hard, I wanna stay curled in this ball and cry.
At four in the morning, I snap.
“This is fucking bullshit!” I slip my feet into my fluffy slippers, pull my robe closed, and march across the street.
As I bang on the front door, it flings open. There are at least a half-dozen naked women traipsing across the room, gyrating on beefy athletes and doing God knows what.
