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5. The First Dance

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Ricky was in a bad mood. It was early in the evening as he stood outside the big hotel in midtown, where the First Dance was to be held, smoking a cigarette and waiting for Sebastian to show up.

He didn't want to be there though. In fact, he could see the tall building where he lived with his father, just south of Central Park, from where he stood. But the idea of going home was out of the question. Not when his dad was acting as a particular ass at the moment.

Ricky had been kept up most of the night because his father, Fred, had been banging a chick with an impressive set of lungs all night, which in turn had made it impossible for Ricky to fall asleep. Something that really pissed him off because he had a piano lesson early that morning.

Sleep-deprived and irritated, he had gotten up—having set and reset his alarm to get as much sleep as possible.

Knowing his father was still sound asleep, Ricky turned the volume up high on his stereo before hitting play. The sound of heavy metal came blasting through the speakers at once, making them vibrate against the walls. It felt immensely satisfying.

He dug a cigarette out of a pack and slid open the panoramic glass door to the long balcony that lined the penthouse's top floor, standing in the opening in nothing but his underwear, breathing in the morning air. He lit the cigarette with a satisfied grin, enjoying the sweet sound of revenge.

It didn't take long before Fred was standing on the other side of the bedroom door, hammering on it to be heard over the growling music. "Turn that fucking shit down, Ricky!"

"Go fuck yourself!" Ricky shouted back, regretting it immediately as he carefully lay a hand over his bruised and darkened ribs, pain traveling through them from the strain.

Fred tried the doorknob, but, of course, the door was locked. Ricky always kept it locked whenever he was home. He'd even applied two safety chains to make sure his father couldn't enter without his permission—something he had learned was necessary years ago because his dad kept a spare key to Ricky's bedroom hidden somewhere.

Fred yelled some more profanities and kicked the door angrily before giving up, going back to the master bedroom at the other end of the long hallway, and slamming the door shut.

When Sebastian finally showed up at the hotel, he came without supplies, to Ricky's great disappointment. "Why the fuck didn't you bring any? I haven't smoked all day," he complained.

"Because a search and seizure isn't exactly my perception of a good time," Sebastian reasoned, looking at Ricky with furrowed eyebrows. "And maybe it's a good thing," he added, arching a brow challengingly. "It sounds like you can't handle your shit."

"Fuck you," Ricky mumbled irritated. He stumped out his cigarette, popping a breath mint into his mouth, and walked toward the hotel's entrance. Sebastian shook his head resignedly, following him inside.

They were standing in front of the large double doors leading into a big ballroom made up like a classic casino. Tables for card games, craps, and the roulette had been lined up. No actual money would be in play because gambling wasn't actually allowed, of course. Instead, the money each student had chosen to donate when they bought their tickets was converted into a number of chips—depending on the amount. All of the profit from the ticket sale went to the night's chosen charity.

The place was buzzing with students dressed for the evening—girls in high heels and pretty summer dresses among boys in summer blazers and button-up shirts. Ricky blended in nicely with his classic and preppy light-blue blazer that matched the icy-blue in his eyes. Sebastian did not. Being his usual self, he wore a blazer in a colorful African pattern of red, orange, and yellow.

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