W&W Cluster
The DJ’s hectic lights twirl across Shea’s face as she sways on the dance floor. She hand-altered that red top herself, letting her belly button wink at the boys circling her like prey. Even the little makeup she wears appears expertly applied, thanks to the countless YouTube beauty-bloggers she and her friends worship.
Shea’s first Will and Willow teen event. She is in her element, chameleoned with little effort. It’s baffling how she can melt into a picture yet somehow I’m cast aside, the unwanted piece of furniture in the room.
It’s not that I didn’t want to dance, but no one asked. Those thoughts start swimming against the current. If my hair was longer, if I was skinnier, if I had better clothes . . . they wouldn’t ignore me.
Wish Gab was here. Really, I wish Korey was here.
I check my phone for the tenth time. No new messages from Korey. And no new activity on Instagram or Twitter. His distance pinches like a bruise on the inside of my forearm. A bruise no one can see but I feel with every move.
“Yo, Enchanted,” Creighton says, bumping my hip. “What’s up?”
“Nothing.”
“Why you ain’t out there with everybody else? Your sister is having a good time.”
I glance at Shea, the brightest spot of joy in the room.
“She deserves it,” I mumble.
“What was that?”
“I said I’m just not into this DJ. His set is all over the place.”
Creighton laughs, tugging at my arm toward the dance floor. “Man, you hard to please! Come on!”
Go along to get along, I tell my muscles so they’ll loosen their gripping hold.
He waddles behind me, arms wrapping around my waist. I want to squirm away, but Shea is watching, and I want her to think I’m OK. I want her to look up to me; I’m supposed to be the older sister, the cool one.
“You know, I’ve been meaning to tell you, you been looking good lately.”
His sweaty scent and clammy hands are distracting. He pulls me to a wall in the shadows where other kids are dancing. Or I shouldn’t say dancing—more like boys leaning back and girls grinding on them like they’re trying to find a seat in the dark.
Creighton doesn’t think I’m going to do that, right?
But he does. He assumes the position, backing me into him. His hands feel like raw chicken cutlets rubbing my arms.
“Um, nah,” I mutter, trying to pull away, but his grip is tight. His cutlet hands reach down my dress to my bare thighs. I slap his hands away the first time. Then again.
“Cut it out,” I say.
“What? Girl, come on.” He yanks me hard, my head whiplashes.
“Are you stupid?” I pop at him, then storm out the ballroom, fuming, not caring who sees.
I’m at the elevators when I hear his hard-bottom shoes stumble behind me.
“Oh God, what do you want?”
The elevator door opens and he follows me in.
“Yo, where you going?” he asks.
Without the dizzy lights and music, I can hear the slur in his voice and smell the whiskey on his tongue.
“Just leave me alone,” I hiss, slapping his grabby hands away.
“Chill, Chant! Why are you being like that?”
The elevator dings on my floor.
“Night, Creighton,” I say hard while exiting.
He stumbles behind me.
“Yo, stop following me!”
“I’m not, but I mean, can we talk?”
“Go back to the party! We’ll ‘talk’ later or whatever.”
I take another step, he does too.
“Boy, I’m not playing with you! Leave me alone!”
“But . . . can . . . can we just talk?”
I sprint down the hall, hoping he’s drunk enough to lose him, and step inside my room. But he pushes himself in, slamming the door behind him.
“Yo, stop playing with me!” he barks. “I said I wanna talk!”
In that moment, my heart hits the panic button. I’m alone with this drunk asshole. Did anyone see us leave the party? Does anyone even know we’re up here? What if Shea comes looking for me?
He looks at the bed then back at me. My blood stiffens.
“Creighton . . .” I quiver. “Don’t.”
He tries to curl around me, kissing my neck.
“I ain’t trying to do nothing. I just wanna talk.”
Standing bone straight, I make my voice like steel as something unfurls inside me. I won’t let this asshole attack me. I won’t let my little sister see this.
“If you don’t get the fuck out of here, I will scream.”
Creighton’s head jerks back, his eyes widening.
“No. No, don’t scream!”
“Then GET OUT!”
Realization coats his face. He reels back, biting his fist.
“Shit. Shitshitshitshit. Are you . . . um, gonna tell?”
“OUT!”
Creighton mumbles more apologies before leaving. I check the peephole, watch him walk away, and take my first real breath.
“Shit,” I exhale.
All the fear I should have felt comes flooding into the room in a current too fast for me to handle. I swim to my phone. It’s late. Gab is probably with Jay and won’t answer. Shea is downstairs and I don’t want to ruin her first party, plus Mom would drive all the way here to grab us then light the building on fire.
So I call him.
“Bright Eyes,” Korey sings. “I was just thinking about you.”
“You were? Really?”
“Hey, what’s wrong with your voice?”
“Nothing.”
“Are . . . are you crying?”
“No, I . . .”
“Don’t lie to me.”
I sniffle then laugh. “It’s stupid. Kid stuff.”
“Nothing you tell me is stupid. Where are you?”
“In Jersey City. At a Marriott.”
“I’m at the W Hotel. I’m sending Tony to come pick you up. Don’t tell anyone.”
“Why?”
“You know, I got to keep my location on the low. Remember, baby, I’m not your average dude.”
Chapter 16
What’s Your Emergency?
NOW
Dispatch: 9-1-1, what’s your emergency?
Caller X: Hello? Yes, I think someone is screaming next door.
Dispatch: You hear screaming?
Caller X: I was in the hallway when I heard it. A man screaming. But not normal screams, like . . . screaming for his life.
Dispatch: OK. Sir, are you able to provide a location for first responders?
Caller X: I knocked on the door. No one answered.
Dispatch: Sir, I need to you step away from the door.
Caller X: I share a floor with Korey Fields. The singer. It sounded like him!
Caller X: Sir, I need an address to send first responders.
Chapter 17
Save Me
THEN
I shouldn’t have listened to him. I shouldn’t have been so eager to sneak out the back of the hotel into a Suburban, with the same security guard I saw with him the night we met. I should have at least changed out of my party dress. Mind on autopilot, body numb.