In Between the Lines

Chapter 7: Rules and Revelations

Bonfire might have been the wrong word for what I had walked into. Even calling it a party didn't feel adequate enough.

The backyard was large—or at least larger than I'd expected for the size of the home. Along the patio sat one small, pathetic bundle of logs, remnants of smoke lifting through the cracks of wood, ebbing and long-forgotten. And as far the rest of the yard . . .

Music blared in every direction from speakers I couldn't see—couldn't see because of the several bodies crowded along the fences, on the dance floor, and every space in between. I recognized a few of the faces from class and some just from passing in the halls at school. And the team—yes, that was the baseball team huddled like royalty in their own corner of the yard, lounged across stone benches accented with pillows, while throngs of girls danced around their circle, as if waiting to be picked by one of them. I didn't see Hannah among them. Or Dez.

As I walked further into the yard, the heavy beat of the music thrummed against my chest. Along the dance floor, bodies writhed together in slick, sweaty movements. Red solo cups rested in almost every single person's hand, some carelessly strewn across the ground—the smell of cheap beer impossible to ignore. And the sight of it all, the sounds, the smells . . . it was too much, too familiar. I needed to leave. I needed to—

"Did you show up just to piss me off?" His voice came from behind me, rough and annoyed. But the sound of it . . . it did something to make me forget about everything else, even if just for a moment.

I faced him carefully, making sure to keep my expression neutral. Unfazed. It was something I'd promised myself before walking in, that if I saw him I would not give him any reactions. Not when he seemed to enjoy them so much.

So I merely lifted a brow as I took in Dez, who somehow managed to make jeans and a plain blue tee look like they were worth a million dollars. Even with that frown weighing on his lips.

"Not everything is about you." I shrugged.

He only stared in silence, his face hardening. 

I said tightly, "Let's not do this, okay? Not here. I'll make sure to stay out of your way, and you can stay out of mine." I went to move past him, but he caught my arm, his calloused hand scraping lightly against my skin—not in a way that hurt but in a way that left my skin tingling in its wake.

His gaze fell to where his hand and my arm met, as if he'd felt it, too. And he didn't let go as he looked back up at me and said softly, "You have to go."

I assessed his stare, the harsh line of his mouth, the tightness in those eyes. And there—that was guilt there again. And worry. Was he afraid I'd come in here and make a scene? Did he think I'd stoop so low as to bring our drama to a party?

I didn't bother to ask him why. I didn't need his excuses or explanations.

"No."

Those amber eyes narrowed just slightly."No?" 

"No," I repeated, forcing my face into passive indifference. "I'm not leaving. Not for your sake."

He let go of my arm as if I'd burned him.

"We haven't even known each other for a full week, and yet—" He paused, shaking his head as if the second half of that sentence might make him burst altogether, his mouth twisting in a bitter smile. "I think you might just be the death of me, Peacock."

It felt like an insult.

"Lyra!" I twisted around to find a head of fiery-red curls bouncing towards me. "You made it!"