Contd.
Maddison Lorenzo.
At the party, it’s exactly what you’d expect from college students. A pulsing, sweaty mass of bodies. I weave through them, the bass from the speakers vibrating in my ribs. I hate it here. Honestly, I hate it. But I’m going to pretend like I don’t. Is the music worse, or the thick smell of cheap alcohol and spilled beer, or the occasional splash and scream from the pool somewhere to my left? It’s a toss-up.
I follow Mabel and Tetra upstairs, away from the epicentre of the chaos. They’re buzzing, talking about changing into their bikinis. I’m just hoping to hole up in a room and stay there until this whole thing is over.
My entire plan hinges on this itching Adonis in a place he can’t scratch. Let him see or let him hear from whoever is watching me that I’m exa
