“Piss off, Andy!” His voice is slightly slurred. He’s had so many beers, I’m surprised he’s still cognizant enough to argue. “I’m not doing it.”
“Don’t be chickenshit.”
“Lee will kill me, man. Those koi are his Mom’s…”
“Lee’s passed out on the sectional. He’ll never know.” Red-faced and panting in excitement, Andy reaches out and grasps the wriggling fish in one of his beefy hands. It escapes several times before he manages to maneuver it into an empty beer cup. He stares gleefully at Chris as he slides the cup slowly across the countertop.
“You want me to add some water, or do you prefer it sashimi-style?”
Chris makes no move to take the cup. No one else does, either. Most of the guys just stand there watching, waiting to see how it all unfolds. A few of them start laughing. Pounding Chris on the back in encouragement. Egging him on.
All the while, the fish is drowning on dry land.
My eyes are locked on the cup. I’m not sure why the sight of it bothers me so much, but I can’t seem to look away. It rattles as the koi flops within, fighting for survival. His odds aren’t looking good if no one intervenes.
Dammit.
The last thing I want to do at this moment is save a goddamned oversized goldfish, but it seems I have no choice. I can’t leave the little guy in the hands of these clowns. Don’t get me wrong, I’m not some PETA warrior. I’ve heard all the arguments for plant-based diets and vegan lifestyles — “Fish are friends, not food!” — but I still enjoy a nice piece of swordfish on the grill. I’m always in favor of a clam bake on the coals. Give me some melted butter and a claw-crusher, I will happily decimate a lobster in under five minutes.
The one thing I cannot stand is wastefulness. Entitlement. Some rich kid reaching down into your tiny-ass pond, where you were minding your own business, swimming around in happy circles, never knowing any better… and yanking you out, into the air, just for sport. Just because he can.
That’s the shit I can’t quite swallow.
In this room full of trust fund brats and fourth-generation millionaires, I probably have more in common with the fish flopping inside that cup. Not that they know that, of course. If they did, I’d never be standing here in the first place.
“Stop dawdling, Chris!” Andy hoots. “Drink up!”
Chris steels his shoulders and takes a deep breath, preparing himself. Annoyed — at myself, at my idiot teammates — I snatch the cup off the countertop before he has a chance to grab it.
“This is the most idiotic shit I’ve ever witnessed,” I hiss through gritted teeth. “Where’s the pond? I’m putting him back.”
Andy groans. “Reyes, don’t be a buzzkill! We’re just having a little fun.”
“Your definition of fun is not the same as mine, Hilton.” I push past him on my way to the patio. Chris, I notice, looks more than a little relieved to see me go.
“Where’s your sense of humor, man?” Andy yells at my back. “I used to think you were chill!”
“And I used to think you weren’t an asshole. Things change.” With that, I step through the doors, into the dark, and set off in search of the goddamned koi pond. Figures, it’s on the farthest edge of the property — it’s been that kind of night.
I glance down at the orange fish. He’s still gasping for air, but he seems to be struggling less than before. Doubtful that’s a good sign, I pick up my pace.
Hang in there, little guy.
I don’t regret saving him from a brutal final swim in the bowels of Chris Tomlinson’s stomach; I do regret that this act of piscine altruism will undoubtedly delay my efforts to locate Jo.
An image of Ryan’s arm sliding over her shoulders slams into my mind. His fingers, twisting in her sweater. Her eyes, glazed with the effects of alcohol.
Cursing under my breath, I break into a jog.
Chapter Five
JOSEPHINE
I’m drunk.
I’m not certain how I know this for sure, seeing as I’ve never even been tipsy before, but things are definitely… off-kilter. In a big way.
There’s a slight haze wrapped around my brain. It’s like staring at the world through fog. Everything is at once duller and brighter, louder and farther removed. Despite the disembodied sensation, I am acutely aware of myself in a way I’ve never before experienced.
The press of the steel refrigerator at my back. The scratch of the wool sweater against my skin. The warmth of Ryan’s arm, wrapped around my shoulders. The slight tingle of nervous energy gathered at the base of my spine.
Chugging ten cups of beer will do that to a girl, I suppose. Not that I have much experience to go on. Besides the six-pack of IPAs Archer dared me to pilfer from my parents’ spare fridge a few summers back, I’ve never had more than a few sips at any of these parties.
In retrospect, maybe I should have. I can’t deny, the buzz is making it all much more tolerable. The music isn’t nearly as jarring to my ears. The jocks’ constant chest-bumping is almost endearing, now. Hard as it is to believe, even Sienna isn’t bothering me — despite the fact that, when I drained my final cup, she merely faked a yawn, whispered ‘boooooring’ under her breath, and wandered off toward the den to snort a few lines.
Whatever.
It’s not like I was expecting her to do cartwheels in my honor, or anything. I don’t need her praise. I’m proud of myself for proving I’m not a total Goody Two Shoes at least once before I put high school in my rearview. And Ryan, this giant golden-retriever-of-a-boy lingering by my side, seems proud of me, too. He’s told me so twice already, his consonants running together like water.
“Hell yeah, Valentine! That’s how it’s done!” His broad shoulder nudges mine. “Thought you said you didn’t drink?”
“I don’t.”
“Could’ve fooled me.”
I look up at him. His face is a bit out of focus, like a photograph snapped at the wrong shutter speed. In fact, it’s not just his face. The entire room is looking more like a double-exposure with every passing moment. I regret skipping dinner as the beer swirls inside my empty stomach.
“You want to play again?”
“Definitely not.” I shake my head vigorously. The move makes the room spin even more than before. I grab the edge of the countertop to steady myself.
“Hey, you okay? You look a little…” Ryan’s hand, warm and solid, lands on my shoulder. He squeezes gently through the fabric of my sweater, which suddenly feels too hot against my skin. I’m flushed and woozy, as though all the blood in my veins has rushed straight to my head.
“I’m fine,” I say. Slur. “I think I just need a little fresh air.”
“I’ll come with you.”
“No, that’s okay…”
But my weak protest is quickly brushed aside. Ryan’s arm is already around my shoulders, steering me toward the patio doors, over the threshold, into the night.
Outside, it’s quiet. Music drifts from the open windows, but otherwise there’s only the low hum of voices from the jacuzzi tub, where a handful of people are bubbling like lobsters in a pot. The surface of the pool gleams, a black mirror, as we pass by, stepping over discarded beer cans, cigarette butts, and plastic cups.