Why do so people drink?

This stuff tastes awful.

I force myself to swallow another mouthful of orange juice and vodka.

My throat burns.

My head spins.

I reach for something to hold onto. Find the white banister. It's a smooth, ornate, pure money.

This entire house is pure money. Pristine carpet. Glass tables. Three thousand dollar leather upholstery.

Six dollar Trader Joe's vodka.

The cheap booze ruins the aesthetic. It clashes with the sky lights, the sliding glass doors, the glowing aqua pool.

Not that anyone notices. My classmates are used to expensive furniture and two million dollar mansions.

But cheap vodka and an empty upstairs?

That thrills them.

I've heard enough rumors to know the drill. Rich kids. Nice house. Cheap booze. Parents out of town. I heard Dean fucked Judy…

Not that it's always Dean.

It's just those are the only rumors I pay attention to.

A giggle cuts through the big, white room. It bounces off the high ceilings. It bounces right into my ears.

There's Judy, all blonde hair and long limbs, standing at the table, running her red nails over Dean's forearm.

His smile lights up his blue eyes eyes. They're bright. Full of energy and life and lust for torturing me.

He raises a brow. Runs his strong hand through his shaggy dirty blond hair.

Shrugs his broad shoulders. Those are swimmer's shoulders. He has a swimmer's everything. I've seen him in a Speedo enough times to know—the guys practice a few lanes over.

He's more than a hot body too. He's handsome. Charming. Funny.

Evil.

My head knows better. My head despises the cocky playboy. For calling me sunshine. For taking nothing seriously. For throwing people away.

But my heart?

My body?

It's impossible to get over a guy you see shirtless five times a week. That's a scientific fact.

He laughs at Judy's joke. Shoots her that trademarked Dean million dollar smile as he blows her a kiss.

She paws at his chest.

He shrugs maybe, maybe not.

He's indifferent. Effortless. Aloof.

He has so much female attention he could give or take a knockout in fuck me heels.

That doesn't give a nobody in combat boots much of a chance.

I force myself to look away.

Watch Alan—this is his place—pound his red solo cup. He finishes. Crushes the cup. Watches it fall onto the pristine white carpet.

Drops of brown liquor catch on the fibers.

He shrugs like he doesn't care, but the worry in his eyes betrays him. The jocks around him laugh. Pound their drinks. Whisper some secret.

There are a dozen people here. Half in that circle. The rest on the couch or in the airy, stainless steel kitchen.

Everyone here is casual. Comfortable. Used to parties. To money. To cheap booze in plastic cups.

I…

This is way out of my comfort zone.

My gaze shifts back to Dean.

His eyes lock with mine. He raises his glass. Smiles.

My combat boots tap together. My hands go to my tank top. I play with its edge. Try to figure out what the hell that means.

Dean and I have shared two classes a day, every day, for the last three years.

He spends most of his free time teasing me.

Calling me sunshine.

Mocking how seriously I take art, math, and science.

Mocking my all black clothes, my thermos of tea, my tendency to gush about cartoons.

He turns to Alan. Whispers something.

Alan laughs.

Dean nods hell yeah. "Everybody come here." His playful voice bounces around the room.

Everyone turns his way.

Looks at him.

Hangs on his words.

Dean commands attention, friendship, respect. All he does is smile and a dozen girls fall over themselves trying to claim him.

A dozen guys want to be his friend.

The world is his oyster.

"Why should I listen to anything you say, Maddox?" Alan teases back.

Dean's shrug is effortless. Why should I bother exerting a single ounce of energy on anything? "If you don't want me to blow your mind, go ahead. Leave."

"Maddox, I don't want you blowing anything." Alan laughs.

I roll my eyes. How original.

Dean's eyes catch mine. He shakes his head not great, huh?

I fight my smile.

Every day this year, he turned our art class from my happy place to my deal with Dean's constant teasing place.

He doesn't get a smile now.

Even if my body is buzzing with nervous energy.

Even if my limbs are light and airy.

Even if my sex is aching.

I must be blushing, because he's smiling wider. Knowingly. Like he's sure I'm eating out of the palm of his hand.

He turns back to the group. "Truth or date."

"I'm not fourteen," someone says.

"Sounds like you're chicken." Dean turns to me. "What do you think, Chloe? Are you chicken?"

"No." My heart thuds against my chest.

My head fills with ideas. Every dirty dare he could offer me.

His hands in my hair.

His groan in my ears.

His lips against mine.

God, those soft lips.

I want to slap them for all the stupid shit he says. For not giving a fuck about the classes his parents pay a fortune for. For calling me sunshine every three seconds.

But he's calling me Chloe.

He…

I…

My heart pounds so hard I'm sure it's going to break out of my chest.

It doesn't.

But a deep breath does nothing to help me calm down.

For three years I've been smitten. Ever since our first day in geometry, when he turned to me and asked to borrow my protractor. Then promised to make it worth my while with a wink and smile.

Calm eludes me.

Sense eludes me.

Everything but a fangirl voice screaming Dean Maddox eludes me.

His lips curl into a smile. He holds out his arm. Motions come here.

My knees knock together.

Lightness spreads into my chest, neck, head. I'm dizzy. Like I'm going to faint.

Who knew swooning was a real thing? I thought Gia made it up.

My feet move of their own accord.

My combat boots sink into the plush carpet.

My hands slip from my pockets.

One finds his palm.

He wraps his fingers around my hand. Rubs the space between my thumb and forefinger with his thumb.

He looks down at me—he has to, he has a foot on me—like I'm the only thing he needs.

Like I'm everything he needs.

His voice is soft. Sweet. "Nice of you to join, sunshine."

The nickname breaks my trance.

Dean doesn't need me. He needs to push my buttons.

Gia insists he's teasing because he likes me, but what does Gia know about guys like Dean? She met her boyfriend at a comics shop. They read Spider-Man and play video games together.

Gia doesn't know Dean, but I do.

With him, you have to bite back.

I shoot him my best fuck you smile. "Nice to see you, Dick Face."

He chuckles. "You know I take that as a compliment."

I shrug do you? People mill closer. Take seats on the couch, at the table, on the ground.

"If you'd seen my dick, you'd know why." He steps forward to let someone pass. His hand brushes my arm. His chest brushes my shoulder. His crotch brushes my outer thigh.

My body responds with gusto.

Any sense of calm, of upper hand, of any hand, dissipates.

My body goes into overdrive. Every molecule screams the same thing: more Dean please.

A jock's voice pulls me from my thoughts. "Damn, Maddox. Stop bragging. We're playing a game here." He pats a spot on the the packed couch. It's all designer jeans and BCBG dresses and pretty girls in hot guy's laps.

I take a step backwards, but there's nowhere to go. My ass hits the glass table.

Dean turns to his friend. "Should I whip it out instead?"

A girl sitting on the couch claps with glee. "Hell yeah!"

The five girls sitting on the ground clap with her.

"There's a demand." Dean shrugs, effortless. He reaches for his jeans. Pretends to undo his button. "I can't let my fans down."

"Save it for the game," the friend says.

A dozen awwws and no fairs bounce around the room.

Dean turns to me. Winks. "Fair is fair." He offers his hand. "Sit with me, sunshine."

He leads me to the couch. Rests his ass on its arm.

I stand next to him. Shift my weight between my feet. Tap my toes together. Listen to the hollow sound the synthetic leather makes.

His hand brushes my hip.

My body responds immediately.

My pulse races. My nipples perk. My sex clenches.

I want him touching me. I think about it all the time. Too much.

He's everything I hate.

He's someone I hate.

But I still want him touching me.

I still stroke myself to orgasm thinking about him every fucking night.

"Why don't you start, romeo," Dean's friend calls.

Ooohs and ahhs bounce around the room with do its and Oh my gods!

The room wants Dean.

The entire world wants Dean.

He wants…

How knows what the hell the manwhore wants.

He smiles, reveling in the attention. "With pleasure." He turns to me. "Chloe, truth or dare."

My head fills with ideas.

A dare to kiss him.

To flash him.

To touch him.

God, I want to touch him.

And to slap the smarmy smile from his face.

He did call me by my name.

Maybe there's some shred of decency behind his party boy facade.

Or maybe that's my hormones talking.

Either way.

I adopt his aloof posture. Watch clouds roll over the skylight. Watch the wavy lines of the pool bounce off the sliding glass door. Watch a dozen people turn their attention to me.

Deep breath. Slow exhale. "Truth."

His blue eyes sparkle as his smile spreads over his cheeks. "Are you a virgin?"

My cheeks flush.

My chest too.

Fuck Dean.

He must know I am.

Everyone at school knows.

I'm the weird loner who spends lunch drawing in her sketchbook.

Guys aren't interested.

Not that any guys appeal. The guy who tortures me is the only one I want.

Why am I here?

I step backwards. Dig my heel into the soft carpet. My instincts scream leave, but I can't do that.

I'm not embarrassed of my inexperience.

I'm not letting him rattle me.

I'm not letting his friends think I'm some loser ashamed of her decisions.

"Yes." I shoot Dean my most serene smile. "I have standards. I'm sure that's hard for you to imagine."

He scratches his head. "Standards. Never heard of those."

His friends laugh.

Someone calls out, "It's when you need more than a pulse and two legs."

"Two legs? Look who's Mr. Picky." A jock laughs.

"I'd never discriminate against a woman with one leg. Or no legs." Dean's eyes find mine. "I don't need a smile either. A million dollar scowl is better."

I fight my scowl. I'm playing Dean's game. Indifference. Aloofness. Utter coolness. "Unfortunately for you, I do have standards."

Someone makes that ooh, burn sound.

The girls on the floor giggle. Whisper something. No doubt it's who does she think she is? No way Dean wants her. But I don't care about them.

They're seniors. They're graduating. In two weeks, they'll be out of my life forever.

Dean looks up at me with a wicked smile. "Your turn."

Oh. So it is. I scan the room.

Fuck the girls trading rumors.

Fuck the guys looking at me like they're deciding if I meet their standards.

Fuck this whole party.

My gut churns. Why did I let Gia talk me into this? Why did I think an invite from Dean could lead to anything but teasing and embarrassment?

I need to get out of here. Fast.

I look to Alan. He's a wannabe Dean. Not quite as cute or tall or blonde. Not as funny or charming or attention grabbing. "Alan, truth or dare."

Everyone turns to him.

He leans back in his black chair. Revels in the attention. "Dare."

I have to fight fire with fire. "I dare you to streak around the neighborhood."

Alan jumps to his feet. Holds up his hand in salute. "I hope you ladies are in for a show." He sends winks in every direction. Even mine.

Then he marches over the carpet, the white tile foyer, the mat. All the way out the door.

It slams shut with a thud.

"Let's set up on the porch." Dean motions to the door. Leans in to whisper something to the girl next to him.

Even though she's sitting on some guy's lap, she giggles at Dean. "Sure."

She slides off her boy-toy's lap. "Follow me." Her red heels sink into the carpet, then they click against the tile.

She turns back. Motions let's go.

And everyone does.

One by one, people stand. File out of the room.

Someone, a guy about Dean's height, with a Letterman jacket and dark hair, whispers something in Dean's ear.

Dean shakes his forehead. "Got something else to do."

The friend laughs.

Dean watches him leave.

It's just us in this giant house.

I move to the table. Fill my glass with more orange juice and vodka. Pray for it to erase that you don't belong here voice completely.

This is supposed to be the best time of my life. Parties. Boys. Fun.

I'm having fun, dammit.

Dean follows me to the table. "You don't want to watch?"

"Alan isn't my type."

"What is?"

"Smart guys." I take a long sip of my drink. "You know any?"

"Not one. But I can help with that drink." His hand brushes mine. Slowly, he peels my fingers from my cup. "Grenadine." He picks up a bottle of candy red liquid. Pours it into my glass. "Goes does smoother."

"Thanks." My stomach flutters as he hands the glass back.

This is intentional.

He's touching me on purpose.

He's helping me on purpose.

He's alone with me on purpose.

He fills his cup with Jack and Coke then lifts it to toast.

"To?" I ask.

"Good friendships."

"We're good friends?"

"Of course." His voice is earnest. Honest.

"I hate you."

"I know."

"That doesn't bother you?"

"Fuck no. It's what I like about you." He clinks his glass with mine. Takes a long sip. Lets out a low sigh of pleasure. "You keep me on my toes."

"You live on your toes."

"Should take up ballet." He makes a show of rising to his tip toes. It's nowhere close to a ballet move. But it's Dean all the same.

Charming and irritating.

Gia says he reminds her of Han Solo.

But Gia isn't the one taking his constant insults. (And Gia needs to lean that Star Wars isn't the answer to all of life's questions).

"I do like you, sunshine." His eyes find mine. "Have for awhile."

"So that virgin question?"

"I wanted to know something. So I asked."

"What did you want to know?"

He moves closer. Until I can feel the heat of his body. Smell his cologne. "If I'd be your first."

What? My cheeks flame. There's no way he…

There's no…

I…

"Chloe?" His fingers brush the inside of my wrist.

"Huh?"

"I want to fuck you."

"But—"

"Let's go upstairs. I'll show you the night of your life."

My defenses crumble.

Dean wants me.

He's offering to fuck me.

He…

How is this possible?

My heart screams for him. My body aches for him. My head— it's still reasonable.

I throw up the only defense I know—sarcasm. "Of my entire life?"

"Yeah."

"Doesn't speak well for your future performances."

"You already thinking about round two?"

"No. I…" My cheeks flame. "I meant—"

"I know what you meant, sunshine. Round two will be just as good. But nothing is as special as your first time."

"Yours?"

He shrugs, effortless. "Wasn't lucky enough to have someone like me showing me the ropes."

"You're going to show me the ropes?"

He nods. "Yeah." His fingers trace circles over my skin. "If that's what you want."

"Judy offered to fuck you."

"And?"

"Why me over her?"

"I told you, sunshine. I like you. It's that simple."

"You're about to graduate."

"You will next year."

"But you're… you're leaving."

He shakes his head. "Not going anywhere."

"Where will you be?"

"Ryan is gonna get me a gig as an apprentice."

"Yeah?" I bite back my enthusiasm. Dean's older brother is a tattoo artist. It's the coolest thing ever.

"Yeah." He nods. "Just got this one." He pulls his shirt up his torso, showing off inches of taught abs.

He pulls it higher.

All the way to his side.

He turns to show off a tattoo on his ribs—the state of California, adorned with grey and red roses.

"How much did that hurt?" I ask.

"Like a bitch."

"Guys usually say it doesn't hurt."

"Liars."

"Can I?"

"Of course."

My fingers go to his skin. It's soft, but he's bone and muscle beneath it.

God, the feel of him against my fingertips…

My knees knock together.

"Didn't think you were the ink type," he says.

Words dissolve on my tongue. He's so close. And so undressed. And so hot.

My hand knows what it wants.

It traces his ink again and again.

I look up at him. He's so tall. I'm short, yeah, but he's on some other plane of height.

"Can you keep a secret?" I ask.

He pulls an imaginary zipper over his lips in a my lips are sealed gesture.

"I got one last month." I roll my jeans over my right hip to show off my new tattoo. A star. It's a little lopsided, but it's mine.

"Bad ass." He flashes me that million dollar smile. "I have another one to show you." He offers his hand. "Upstairs."

There's weight in the word.

Upstairs isn't for conversation. It's for what I've been dreaming about for the last three years.

"Okay." I down half my drink. Pray for the liquid courage I hear so much about. "Upstairs."

I take his hand and follow him to the bedroom.

***

Dean presses his lips to mine.

He strips me out of my clothes.

He lays me on the bed and warms me up.

Pulls a condom from his jeans. Tears it open. Slides it on.

Then he's on top of me, easing into me, whispering dirty promises in my ear.

It hurts, but not as badly as Gia told me it would.

The pain fades to discomfort.

To pleasure.

To the thrill of knowing that Dean and I are one.

He takes care of me. Makes sure I come.

It feels like we go forever.

We finish. He helps me dress. Promises to stay in touch.

Never does.

He doesn't text, or call, or email, or IM.

The next week, he graduates.

And I spend seven years without hearing a peep from Dean Maddox.