Whistleblower ✓

44 | pollock (part two)

Bodie was easy to spot, since he was a head taller than almost everyone else at the party, save for a trio of basketball players who were off to the side passing a joint between themselves.

It helped, of course, that Bodie had blacklight paint dripping off his chin. He was a beacon of green above the crowd.

He stopped in front of us.

"What happened?" Hanna shouted over the music.

"Andre got paint in my eye," he said, trying and failing to open it through the thick coating of neon green paint that clung to his lashes.

Hanna barked out a laugh.

"Fuckin' Andre."

"Does it sting?" I asked, a bit more sympathetic than my roommate.

"Like a bitch, actually."

Andre popped out of the crowd, his face twisted with guilt.

"You sure you don't wanna use my shirt?" he offered, despite the fact that his shirt was also soaked in paint.

"I'm okay," Bodie told him, despite the fact that he was obviously not.

"Hey," I said, tapping his elbow. "Do you wanna try to go clean up?"

"That'd be great," he said.

I turned to Hanna and said, "I'm gonna help Bodie find some water, or a towel, or something, and don't you dare smile at me like that."

She ignored the warning and leaned past me to clap Bodie on the shoulder.

"You're in good hands," she told him with a suggestive wink I was absolutely going to kick her ass for later.

Bodie turned to me and said, "Lead the way."

I grabbed his hand, weaving our fingers so we wouldn't lose each other in the crowd, and tried not to think too hard about how large and warm his hand was. Together, we dove into the hot crush of bodies and headed back out through the tunnel.

The front door of the Art House was blocked off by a few guys who were in charge of redirecting the constant stream of drunks looking for a place to pee.

"Porta Potties to your left, ladies," one of them called to a trio of girls who had their arms linked for structural stability.

I led Bodie around to the far side of the house, instead. The back door was locked, which meant nothing to me, because Mehri Rajavi had told me she and her roommate kept an emergency key (and, apparently, an emergency bong) behind one of the potted plants on the screened-in porch.

One twist in the lock, and we were in.

Bodie and I slipped into the Art House unseen.

The harsh white glare of the lighting inside was far less flattering than the gentle blue glow of the blacklight. We looked a mess, our hair ruffled and clothes covered in smudged paint.

Under any other circumstance, I might've taken a moment to be horrified by how I probably looked.

But Bodie was half-blind at the moment.

"C'mon," I said, taking his hand again despite the fact that there was no longer a crowd to separate us.

The first floor of the house was empty, save for a few people in pristine white clothes who seemed to be having trouble deciding when to end their pregame. They were gathered on the stairs, yelling up and down at each other as they debated the pros and cons of joining the festivities outside or downing a few more shots, and didn't even blink when I trod past, leaving wet footsteps on the warped wood floor and tugging a half-blind, six-foot-five quarterback behind me.