Blind Ambition | ✓

25 | Ghosts, Part I

Day ragers were my favorite kind of party. I was built for stamina and longevity, and therefore I was built for day drinking.

We'd all gotten back from Hartford after 11 last night, but the euphoria of winning had been injected into our veins, and we sang Mr. Brightside at the top of our lungs as we made it back to Fairfield county. Still jittering and refusing to come down from the high, I didn't get to sleep until 2 AM, and we rolled up to Anthony's the next morning at 10 with eight kegs, a crate of champagne, and the swagger of a bunch of guys that just won their state football championship. If this was going to be the last football party of the year, out of control was the only acceptable mode.

As per most of Anthony's parties, it was open invite. People I'd never met before in my life were congratulating me, slinging their arms around my shoulders like we were best fucking friends and begging me to do shots with them. I was hammered by 2 PM, but so was everyone else.

Most of the partygoers had congregated in the den at the back of the house, because it was the biggest open space and had the doors to the deck wide open to suck all the body heat and all the smoke out into the cold. There was a keg on the deck and a keg in the corner before the doorway to the kitchen, and like the champ he was, Chris held the current keg stand record for the day.

"Any more challengers?" he bellowed to the open room, but it was hard to take him seriously with a pair of plastic light up glasses on his face.

"What a fucking animal," Anthony chuckled before taking another hit of a blunt and passing it to me. I needed a break from the liquor before I passed out without pants before 5. I took a long hit and felt the pounding of my heart slow against my ribcage. Meret appeared at Anthony's side, and he took the blunt before being whisked away by her. A slight gust came in through the open doors, and I was thankful for the chill, otherwise the entire house would have been a sticky, disgusting sauna. 

Someone had cranked the music on the speaker as the beginning to It's My Life by Bon Jovi filled every corner of the first floor.  

"Dallas! Dallas!"

Chris came barreling up to me like a bull in a china shop, nearly knocking me over before throwing his arm over my shoulder. "Dallas, this is our fucking song man."

"We have a lot of songs, Christopher," I chuckled, trying to keep my half-inebriated state steady under Chris's grip.

"If you know it, you gotta sing it. I don't make the rules," he slurred, poking me in the chest with a finger.

I threw my hands up in protest, but when the song kicked in, it was like Bon Jovi himself possessed us, and the words came effortlessly.

This ain't a song for the broken-hearted

No silent prayer for faith-departed

And I ain't gonna be just a face in the crowd

You're gonna hear my voice when I shout it out loud

If there was a song that drunk guys at a party always sang, this was top five easily. But that didn't stop any of us. As the chorus dropped, Chris and I had jumped up onto the black leather couch at the center of the living room, freshly filled cups of beer raised, and just screamed.

It's my life

It's now or never

But I ain't gonna live forever

I just want to live while I'm alive

Cause it's my life

It didn't take long for the entire party to join in, cheering and cups raised and singing along. Anthony jumped onto the couch between us and slung his arms around our shoulders, swaying off beat to the music.