“Where’s your drink, girl?” Some guy I don’t recognize stumbles into my path. “It’s time to get wasted!”
He thrusts a can of beer in my direction, so I take it and move along, leaving him calling out behind me in the crowd.
I pop the tab and take a gulp, feeling the familiar burn of self loathing as the alcohol works its way into my system. Drinking is the easiest way to block out the world, but every time I do, I think of my mom, sneaking whiskey into her coffee at seven AM just to make it through another day. I struck a deal with myself, back the first time some guy sneaked me a sip from his flask down under the bleachers: one drink. Only ever have one drink. I’ve seen what happens to girls who go too far, the sloppy mistakes and barely-conscious hook ups that turn to ash come morning. Sure, I’m no angel, but every guy I’ve been with has been my choice, my rules. My way to block it all out, and lose myself in a hot tangle of limbs and groping hands.
The music changes to some fast rock song, and I feel the fire in my veins. I need to move, to let it out, so I slip closer to the fire and let my body take over, moving to the staccato beat and angry crash of guitar. My eyes drift closed, and I try and let go, imagine myself a thousand miles from here, some other girl in some other life, with nothing but the music in my mind.
I feel hands grab my waist and I stumble back, my eyes flying open. It’s some guy I don’t recognize, wearing an oversized football shirt and looming in way too close. “Hey!” I protest, putting both my hands against his chest and shoving at him, hard. “What the hell?”
“Relax, babe,” the guy moves in again, and then I feel someone else behind me. It’s another guy, grabbing at me from behind.
“Back off!” I yell, louder this time. I turn, trying to slip out from between them, but they’re too big, all meat-head muscles and grabbing hands, and I’m trapped. The first guy grabs at my ass again, and I smack his hand away, glaring. “I said, get your hands off me!”
He ignores me, yanking me against him and laughing to his buddy.
“What do you say?” He slurs, smelling of beer and cigarettes. “Think she can handle the two of us?”
“Fuck yeah.” The other guy grabs at my ass again, thrusting lewdly. “You like it crazy, don’t you, slut?”
I snap. Pure rage courses through me, and I’m just about to unleash hell on them and put to good use all the karate moves Emerson taught me in the back yard when Meathead is yanked back away from me. A split-second later there’s the sound of someone’s fist smashing into his jaw.
Time stops as I lock eyes with the guy who hit him: the one person in this whole crowd who noticed what was going on and came to my defense. The last guy I’d ever expect to see at a party like this.
Hunter Covington.
A jolt of electricity flies through me, setting every nerve ending alight. Then time un-freezes and the world comes rushing back in: the meathead goes flying back with the force of Hunter’s blow, knocking into the crowd and sending people flying. Someone screams, and then his buddy shoves me aside and goes charging at Hunter.
I struggle to stay on my feet, watching in horror as he tackles Hunter hard and the two of them tumble to the ground. Hunter manages to twist on top, and then he’s raining down punches: hard, sharp jabs to the guy’s face and throat, until his fists are bloody; expression fierce and determined. There’s no time for me to move, it’s like I’m fixed in place, but I look past him and see the meathead on the ground recover and drag himself up, murder in his eyes.
“Hunter!” I scream a warning, but he must not hear me. Before I can say another word, the meathead pulls Hunter off his friend and punches him hard in the stomach.
I flinch at the blow, my heart twisting as I watch Hunter reel back, pain flooding his expression.
No!
Hunter may be fast, but this guy is massive: built like a truck, and now he’s pissed too. I don’t know what I can do to stop him, this is already way out of hand. I look around for help, but everyone is just standing, watching. They’ve even got the nerve to look thrilled, like this is some game for their entertainment. Do they even realize Hunter is about to get ripped limb from limb?
My heart races in desperation, and I try and push my way towards them. I don’t know what I’m planning to do, I just know I have to try and help Hunter, but before I can reach him, someone else appears through the crowd and grabs hold of Meathead in an iron restraint.
“Enough!” He orders. It’s Jace, the other Covington brother. Older, gorgeous, the one who has every girl in town panting just from walking by.