Sheri nods and stops rocking in that rickety chair. She stands up, sticking her hand deep into the front pocket of her jeans, then pulls out a few bills. “Here’s some cash for tonight in case you need it,” she says, offering the money to me. I swivel around to take it from her – it’s fifty bucks. “I have an allowance to administer for you. I’m to give you some cash as and when. Though who knows how they expect you to spend anything if you aren’t supposed to leave this place . . . I’ll tell them you’ve been fending off boredom with shopping online.”
“Thanks, Aunt Sheri.”
I stuff the cash inside my phone case and my phone vibrates in my hand as I do so. It’s a text from the most recently added number to my contact list.
SAVANNAH: Hey girly, we’re outside the gate. Do we come in or do you come out? I’m too poor to know how these things work LOL.
“Oh. They’re here,” I tell Sheri to appease her curious gaze. “Can you open the gate to let them in? Or how do I leave?”
To be fair to Savannah, even I don’t know how this works around here. Back home, the security gates around our property are controlled by fingerprint access, the highest tech possible.
“Oh! Of course – the gate. We’re having some technical difficulties with the remotes at the moment, so you’ll need to open it manually from the inside like I did earlier. The big button on the control panel on the left,” Sheri explains, then rocks back and forth on her heels. “Mila, if there’s alcohol at this party, promise me you won’t drink.”
“After those headlines from Thursday night? No, thanks.” I’m trying to joke, but a pang of shame sears through my chest. There’s actually a video of me throwing up all over the TMZ website. And the images circling around the magazines are just as gross. I’ve learned my lesson – no more “experimenting”.
Sheri frowns and says quietly, “Just remember who you are.”
Ugh. The mere sound of those words has me clenching my fists by my side. I get it – I’m off to a tailgate party with strangers who have zero loyalty to me, but surely no one will care enough to go out of their way to talk to a journalist or sell photos to some sleazy celeb site? All things Everett Harding must be pretty boring by now to kids who’ve grown up in his hometown. I bet everyone is sick of hearing the name.
“And you’ll need the code for the gate for when you get back! There’s a keypad on the outside – take a note of this code,” Sheri says quickly as I’m moving toward the steps. She gives me a string of numbers that I punch into the notes app on my phone.
“Okay, got it. Bye!”
I run down the porch steps and do an awkward jog toward the looming gate in the distance – if I were to walk, I’d feel rude for making Savannah and Myles wait so long. When I reach the gate, I spot the control panel, open it up, then push the button that seems the most obvious – the giant green one. A loud, long buzz rings as the electric churns and the gates move. I retreat, allowing them to open wide, revealing me to the outside world as though I’m something special. Truly embarrassing.
Outside, a truck is idling. The black paintwork, most likely freshly washed and waxed for tonight, glistens under the spotlights that shine down from the walls. The windows are all tinted black and Savannah lowers hers from the backseat.
“Hop in!” she says, beaming.
I dash around the back of the truck and climb in the other side, careful not to scuff the paintwork with my sneakers. I’m not sure Myles would be happy if I damaged his car.
“Sorry to keep you waiting,” I apologize. I’m not sure how long they were sitting out here before Savannah texted, but I hope it wasn’t a while. I pull on my seatbelt and check out Savannah’s outfit to ensure I’m dressed appropriately.
I’m wearing a pair of ripped jean shorts, white Nikes, and a crop top. I straightened my hair and applied a generous amount of makeup, my lips sticky from the gloss. Luckily, Savannah is almost identical, except her hair is loosely curled and she’s wearing a denim mini skirt.
“We just got here, don’t worry,” Myles says, and it’s only when I glance up to look at him that I realize he’s sitting in the passenger seat.
Which means he isn’t the one driving. This isn’t his truck.
“Uhhh . . .” I shoot Savannah a questioning look, then subtly point to whoever is behind the wheel. They haven’t turned around yet nor have they spoken.
“Oh!” Savannah says, bolting upright, as if suddenly remembering that introductions need to be made. “This is our cousin. Blake. And Blake, this is Mila Harding.” Savannah puts a slight emphasis on my last name, or maybe I’m imagining it.
I look up and catch the gaze of the driver in the rearview mirror. He’s watching me, brown eyes narrowed slightly, shining from the spotlights encircling the ranch. Then he twists in his seat and looks at me directly.
“Hi, Mila,” he says coolly. “Your first tailgate party, huh?”
“Yeah. They don’t really happen in LA.”
“Of course they don’t,” he deadpans, then turns back to face the road.
Unlike his strawberry blond relatives, Blake has dark features. His hair is a warm brown and naturally tousled, his eyes shadowed beneath thick brows. His face is angular, his jawline sharp, and he seems much more aloof than his friendly cousins.
I swallow and lean back against the seat, suddenly aware of my heartbeat. I can feel my skin tingling. Off to a tailgate party with strangers . . . But this is what normal teenagers in Fairview do, right? Except, as my parents so often remind me, I’m not a normal teenager.
“Let’s head over and show Mila some reality then,” Blake says, and he bumps up the music a little and sets off down the quiet roads away from the ranch. There’s something slightly off with his tone. Mocking. Something that if I wasn’t so nervous I’d ask him to explain.
Instead, I let it slide.
The music choice isn’t really what I’d expect, because instead of R&B we’re listening to acoustic country. Not exactly the kind of tunes to get us into the party vibe, but it’s chill and relaxing as the sky continues to darken outside the tinted windows. The sunset has fully disappeared now.
Myles and Blake talk between the two of them, so Savannah turns to me for our own conversation in the backseat. However, every once in a while, my eyes wander to the boys in the front, observing Blake’s hands on the wheel, Myles’s more animated gestures and their unfamiliar profiles as they turn toward each other while speaking.
“Are you excited?” Savannah asks, tucking her hair behind her ear. That’s how I notice the funky earrings she’s wearing – dangling horses.