She pulls back to look at me, holding me by the shoulders. “My God!” she shouts over the music, squeezing my biceps. “Look at you! Someone’s been to the gym.” She eyes me up and down approvingly. “Like the beard. It suits you.”
“Hey, Dahlia,” I say, rubbing a self-conscious hand across my scratchy beard. I haven’t bothered to shave in two weeks because I don’t have to anymore and it feels good to not have to follow orders. “You look just the same.”
She winces. “I hope not. I was the ugliest, dorkiest teenager. But now I’ve blossomed. Don’t you think?” She twirls in front of me with a big grin.
I smile. “Yes. You’ve lost the dorkiness. At least, mostly.”
“You have to meet the birthday girl,” she says, and pulls me by the sleeve away from Tristan and Zoey and over toward a striking-looking, elfin girl with blond hair, who stands in the center of a half dozen people, like a brilliant planet being orbited by lesser planetary bodies.
“This is Emma,” Dahlia announces. “And this is my friend Will,” she says, introducing me. I know this girl is Dahlia’s girlfriend and that she’s an actress. This is her house, so I’m guessing she’s a successful one.
“Hey,” I say, feeling incredibly awkward as all eyes land on me. “Happy birthday.”
“I used to have the biggest crush on him.” Dahlia laughs.
I glance sideways at her, bowled over by the news, and by the fact she’s announcing it to the world, including to her girlfriend.
“She’s only saying that to be nice. I was the weird kid on the block,” I mumble, already wondering how long I have to stay. It’s not that the party doesn’t seem fun and buzzy and all those other adjectives people use to describe parties, but it really isn’t my kind of thing. I prefer small groups—one-on-one conversations, and even those I find difficult most of the time. I’m also not good at chitchat, and that’s obvious after several strained minutes of standing like a lemon making small talk with Dahlia and her friends. I don’t feel out of my depth here, so much as in the wrong swimming pool.
Emma suddenly inches over to me. “You don’t like crowds, I can tell.”
I look at her, surprised. “I guess I’m just not used to them.”
“You’re an observer, like me.”
I nod. “Yeah.”
She sighs. “I’ve had to learn to play the role of an extrovert, but secretly I’m not one at all.”
“I hear you,” I say, smiling as my eyes roam the room. It’s another habit from the Marines. I’m used to always being on the lookout for threats coming my way, so even in a party in a fancy house owned by a film star, I’m behaving like a sentry on the base.
“Dahlia told me you were looking for a job,” Emma remarks.
I take a deep breath in. For crying out loud, does everyone know my business? “Yeah,” I grunt, before telling myself not to get so upset. It’s not like it’s a secret. I’m just sensitive to the idea of anyone worrying about me or taking pity on me. I can take care of myself.
“I think I can help,” Emma says. “I know someone who’s looking to hire someone in your”—her eyebrows lift—“area of expertise.”
What could that possibly mean? I squint at her. Then I realize that whatever friend she’s talking about is probably part of this celebrity world—a world I want nothing to do with. But before I can dismiss her, someone calls her name from across the room. Emma quickly squeezes my shoulder. “We’ll talk later, okay? It really is a great opportunity.”
“That would be great,” I murmur politely. “Thanks.”
Emma hurries off, darting through the crowd like a silver comet. And I stand in the corner, watching people talking and dancing and flirting. I feel like I’m on the outside of a galaxy, looking in, like some piece of floating space debris.
I watch Tristan and Zoey slow-dance but have to turn away when they start kissing. My gaze falls through open French doors that lead into the back garden. Outside I catch a glimmer of an azure swimming pool, and then a flash of neon purple streaks past. It’s a girl with dark hair pulled into a sleek topknot. She’s wearing a clinging purple dress that reveals slender arms and a tiny waist. I can feel myself automatically leaning closer to get a better look at her. There’s something about her that catches the eye, beyond the dress and the body. She’s talking to someone who I can’t see, but it looks like they’re having an argument.
I can only see her in profile, and I find myself wanting to see her face-on. She starts to walk off, out of sight, but a guy suddenly appears. He chases after her and yanks her by the arm, pulling her back around to face him. He’s yelling at her, saying something I can’t catch, and she’s trying to pull away, but he won’t let her go.
I’m moving before I can think about it, pushing past a couple of people making out by the window and walking out the French doors onto the terrace.
The guy, who is skinny and blond, with hair sprayed into some weird shape that looks like he walked backward through a wind tunnel, is still holding on to the girl. “Leave me alone, Jamie!” she yells.
Instinct kicks in. “You heard her,” I say, stepping toward them and staring at the guy. My heart rate drops even as adrenaline seeps into my veins. “Let her go.”
I’m aware of them both turning to look at me, the boy’s face twisted up with anger. I’m aware, too, of his hand still gripping her arm, and I’m aware of the music and the sounds of the party, but only as a distant thrum beneath my own heartbeat. I move, lightning fast, and break the hold with a snap of my hand against his elbow.
The guy lets out a yell and falls back, clutching his arm and looking up at me, with a touch of fear flashing across his face as well as indignation. “What the hell? You just attacked me!” he shouts, looking around as though for witnesses to our exchange.
“I told you to get your hands off her,” I answer quietly. I turn to the girl, ignoring him. “Are you okay?” I ask, searching her face.
I can’t read her expression. She seems relieved but also angry, though I can’t tell at whom. I have my back to the guy, but I sense him as he comes up behind me, and I turn in time to catch his fist as it plows toward me. Keeping his fist gripped in my hand, I twist his arm up and behind his back. He lets out a high-pitched howl in response, but I don’t let go.
“Ow! Get off!” He flails, trying to get free, but I hold him tighter, unsure if he’s going to try to hit me again.
“Stop it!” the girl says to me. “Let him go.”
Reluctantly I do, shoving him a little so he gets the message not to try anything.
I turn back to the girl. She has mascara streaked down her cheeks, but even so, she’s breathtaking, with huge brown eyes, bronzed skin that’s smooth as butter, and lips so full that I can’t stop staring at them. I almost lose my train of thought. “You want me to walk you inside?” I finally manage to stutter, giving myself a mental slap.
She shakes her head and then looks away, as if she doesn’t want me to see she’s been crying. “No,” she says, sounding annoyed.
I feel my simmering anger at the guy start to bubble up, irritated that she’s making me feel like I did something wrong. Did I? “I’m only trying to help,” I tell her. What was I meant to do, let him hurt her?