“First official game of the season on Friday. No partying the night before. I don’t want to hear any excuses—if I can manage, so can you.” I point at a few of the guys who are hard-up to get through the week without getting wild. A few murmurs of assent filter through the team. “Aight. Go shower off the stink, you disgusting fuckers.”
The team trickles toward the locker room entrance at the back of the school. Our coach waits for me to check in with him by the sidelines. He lets me run things since I made varsity captain last year, but offers insightful pointers I can’t see when I’m playing the game.
Devlin hangs around, fiddling with his phone while I finish up going over the schedule with the coach. Something distracted him today. Whatever it is, it’s been bugging him since yesterday. Maybe longer. He was weird over the weekend—weirder than usual. I’m used to most of his quirky shit after years of friendship, like his penchant for reading boring ass psychology books.
It was easier to weather Devlin’s brooding moods when his older cousin was around. Lucas Saint was king of this school last year, a grade ahead of us and this town’s golden boy with a golden arm. Too bad he pissed all that talent away to go to art school with his girlfriend.
With Lucas at college, Silver Lake High School belongs to Devlin and me. It’s our senior year. He’s our Devil Boy with his black hair, mischievous smile, and a wily streak the size of Texas. We’re the perfect match of deviants.
“What time does it start tonight?” Devlin asks.
The corner of my mouth lifts. The Ridgeview police chief’s son, Holden Landry, is organizing a fight ring. Because I have a copy of a positive drug test that would end Landry’s football dreams along with footage of him getting blitzed at a boat party over the summer, Devlin and I are getting a thirty percent cut of tonight’s winnings.
This is how things operate with us in charge.
“He’s taking bets until seven. Pick me up at nine?” I grab the bag of soccer balls and sling it over my shoulder as we walk to the locker rooms. Devlin is distracted by his phone again, obsessively checking his messages. “I’ll be at the usual spot down the block.”
“You’re like a junior high chick, the way you sneak out,” Devlin says absently.
“You know what my mom is like. Most of the time I wish someone would see me sneak out and run a story in the gossip column.” I gesture with my hands to highlight a headline. “I can see it now, Chairwoman Bishop’s re-election campaign overshadowed by delinquent son.” A wistful sigh blows past my lips and I elbow Devlin. “It would solve so many of my problems.”
“At least she’s around.”
I bite back a reply. Devlin’s parents duck out on him pretty often. I haven’t seen them in three or four years.
Clapping my hand around his shoulder, I squeeze him closer in a half-hug. “Whatever. Tonight’s going to be awesome.”
The black shadow that passed over Devlin’s features clears, replaced by a devious gleam in his dark gaze.
The scent of weed and beer tinges the night air. It’s cooler than it was earlier now that the sun has gone down. September is still warm as hell during the day, but as soon as it’s nightfall the mountain air turns frigid.
A joint dangles from my lips as Devlin and I move through the crowd, bumping fists with people here and there. A dirty bass line plays from a wireless speaker, the distorted sound flooding the woods at the edge of the abandoned quarry off Blackhawk Road. After it closed it was filled in. Now all that remains is a gravel lot at the base of the mountain. A few Coyote Girls, townies, and chicks from the two public schools dance on truck beds in skintight ripped jeans and cowgirl boots. Laughter spills through the night and a sense of wild debauchery threads through everyone’s energy.
It’s the perfect place for illicit partying in Ridgeview, the access road rarely used since the new highway was built. The only people that come through hit it up during the day for the old hiking trail that heads up into the Rockies.
I scan the crowd for Landry. Everyone is getting rowdy before the fights start. I’ve got something on almost every person here in my files, from my soccer teammates to the people who run in my crowd. Everyone is fair game. It’s become an ingrained habit, one I don’t plan on quitting anytime soon.
Landry is hanging by a classy white Jeep, thumbing through a wad of cash with a guy I don’t know while he flirts with the hot girl sitting on the hood. Maybe he’s a townie, but Landry hands him the cash, so he must run with him. He looks like an odd match to Landry, a punk with a leather jacket, messy dark hair, and a mean glint in his eyes when they land on me. I have no idea how Silver Lake’s starting quarterback and this guy could have crossed paths.
I leave Devlin with the guys and head for the Jeep. The girl Landry’s talking to lets her knees fall open and he steps between them with a wolfish grin. I recognize her as a poli-sci post-grad who joined my mom’s campaign staff over the summer.
“Did you close out the call for bets?” I ask as I lean against the Jeep. The campaign staffer’s eyes go wide when they land on me. I wink at her and tap my nose. “What mommy dearest doesn’t know, right?”
“Uh, yeah,” she answers with a strained cough.
To be extra welcoming since this is the first I’ve seen her at an SLHS party, I offer my joint. She hesitates, then accepts it, taking two hits and grabbing Landry to shotgun the smoke into his mouth.
“Nice,” I say.
Landry flips me off without breaking the kiss with the campaign staffer. His friend rolls his eyes and stalks off with a grunt.
Being discreet, I record a short video clip of them kissing to add to my blackmail collection. Papa Landry would blow his lid at the scandals his son is wracking up. What would be more interesting is if Landry’s younger sister shed her good girl veneer and proved to be even naughtier. With that tight little yoga bod she has, I wouldn’t mind seeing what sort of trouble she could get up to.
Cute as little Maisy Landry is, my mind drifts to Thea and those dime curves she keeps hidden under oversized clothes. I thumb into our message thread. The last text she sent to “Wyatt” was a selfie with a cake she baked after school. I didn’t give a shit about the cake, more interested in the fact her hair was tied up in perky pigtails. Fucking pigtails. I work my jaw as a bolt of heat shoots to my groin.
A surge of cheers drowns out the music, drawing me from my thoughts. People move in droves from where the cars are parked in the gravel lot into the tree line. The headlights spill into a clearing through the trees. I guess the first fight is starting.
Devlin finds me and we head over together. He hands me a beer and lights up a cigarette. We join the crowd circled around two guys duking it out, grunting when their punches land.
Fight Club rules apply, bare knuckles and no shirts. A few guys are positioned around the clearing to deal with any idiot filming for the likes on social media. Landry’s leather jacket friend is one of them, pushing a hand through his hair as he narrows his cold gaze on a couple of chicks taking selfies near us.
One of the fighters in the ring is on the student council at school, with string bean arms, cheeks already pink with exertion and they’ve barely begun. Thanks to my weekly summons from my dad to the school office before therapy, I also know Mr. Student Council was accused of peddling Adderall last week. He swings with gritted teeth and manages to clock his opponent in the chin. The other guy stumbles back a step to regroup, then comes in with a quick one-two jab to Student Council’s weakly guarded center.