“Ah, I see. You’re hungry for that popularity game.”

He laughs and shakes his head. “It’s not so much popularity as it’s…what’s the word? Amiable? I just like being liked.”

“Huh. Is that rooted in a deep-seated need for approval fostered by your alcoholic mother and workaholic father? That’d explain why you volunteer so much – trying to do good because no one does good for you.”

He looks like I zapped him. I wave my hand and laugh.

“I was kidding. I get crazy conclusiony when I get buzzed.”

“How did you –” He stops himself. “I guess I should stop asking that at this point. You and him never cease to amaze me.”

Him. He means Jack. I point at his cup to get him off the subject.

“Whaddya you drinking?”

“Grape juice.”

I laugh. “Seriously?”

“Seriously. I’m the designated driver for quite a few people tonight.”

“Ahh, prez.” I slap his back and he slops juice on the floor. “Always so straight-edge. You gotta learn to live a little!”

“I do! I live constantly!”

“Yeah, but it’s all living for other people and shit. No time to yourself. You’re gonna start resenting everybody pretty soon if you keep doing stuff for them and not you.”

The song changes to Royals by Lorde, and I scream a little and shove my cup at him.

“Hold this! I gotta go dance!”

“You dance?”

“Uh, yeah, I am well-versed in the butt-tango, thank you.”

Wren looks between the dance floor and me, his eyes darting back and forth.

“You wanna dance with me?” I shout.

“What?” His face drains to a pale white in a split second.

“C’mon! It’ll be fun!”

“I don’t dance.”

“Yeah, I don’t poop.”

“What? That sounds a little unhealthy.”

“C’mon, prez!” I grab his hand and pull him towards the ‘dance floor’, which is just a 10x10 of carpet in the corner pushed free of couches. I do my stupidest dances – making myself look like an idiot so Wren won’t feel so uptight about dancing ‘right’. People who don’t dance worry about making fools out of themselves, but when you make a fool out of yourself as often as I do, dancing is kind of easy. Wren laughs when I kneel on the floor and try to do a breakdance head-spin. I end up taking down two people before Kayla kicks me in a friendly manner to get me to stop. Wren bobs a little to the beat, looking nervous as hell. I dance around him, mostly, and when a slower song comes on, I put his arms around my waist and show him how to slow dance. Except he already knows.

“See? You do know how to dance.”

“Ballroom classes,” He says. “My mom made me take them when I was little.”

He doesn’t have cologne on like Jack, but his natural smell is pleasant compared to all of the sweaty boys who are dripping Axe from every pore. It’s then I notice someone sitting on the couch on the other side of the house, staring at me. The icy-blue of his eyes is very familiar. What is he doing here? Did Kayla invite him? And why does his gaze linger where Wren’s arms are around my waist?

Finally, I get bored of being stared at, and rush back to where our drinks are. Wren follows, downing his grape juice in one thirsty gulp. I do the same, the stale coke burning as it goes down.

“I’m wayyyyy too hot,” I say. “Physically my booty is hot, but I’m also hot temperature-wise, so I’m going outside.”

Wren laughs. “Alright. Thanks for the dance.”

“No, thank you, prez.”

“Wren! There you are!”

I watch Kayla run over to him, beaming. Wren almost drops his cup and his glasses slide off his face. Kayla bends to pick them up for him and he stammers an apology. I take my exit and let them fumble through the awkward.

I swallow cool air and try to catch my breath. I haven’t danced in, well, forever. I hadn’t been invited to parties after what happened with Nameless in Florida. His influence spread far and wide, so I was kind of barred from any and all get-togethers. Not that they invited me, the fat girl, to begin with. But still. I’d danced before but this was the first night in a long time, and it felt good. I sweated off some of my worry over Mom in those few minutes. And to think, I danced with Nameless’ cousin. I laugh and slap the bench I’m sitting on.

“Hitting inanimate objects now? Your violence knows no bounds,” A bored voice says. I don’t even have to turn around to know how it belongs to.

“Jackoff!” I slap the bench harder. “Weren’t you being paid to bed a girl tonight? Where is she? Did you bring her?”

“She canceled. Her father had a stroke.”

“Poor guy. Probably will have another stroke when he finds out the money he sends her for college goes to blow and hookers.”

“I’m not a hooker.”

“Come! Come sit by me. It’s a nice bench. Nice and lovely on the butt.”

“You’re drunk.”

“Yeah, and you’re ugly, but do I complain about it? No! Because I don’t complain about things that I can’t change. That’s called intelligence. How’d you find the party, anyway?”

“I remember Kayla squeaking to me about it earlier today. And I saw you with the red cups, and put two and two together.”

“Wow. So smart. So intelligence. Why aren’t you drinking?”

“I like to keep my wits on me at all times. Drinking makes people sloppy.”

“Wouldn’t want anyone to see the mighty Jack Hunter being sloppy.”

“You reek of rum.” He sits by me and sniffs the air.

“It’s a good thing I am not a sexy-ass pirate, otherwise I’d repeat the same line to you over and over about the rum being gone and make a movie out of it.”

“You like Johnny Depp, then.”

“Like him? The man is my dreamboat on my dream car in my dream house in my actual dreams!”

Jack’s lips crumple into a half-sneer, half-incredulous scoff. “Riiight.”

“Ah, what do you know about sexy?” I sputter and wave him off. “You know nuthin’.”

“I know some things, I like to think.”

“Yeah? Don’t tell me - sappy compliments are your idea of sexy. You just lay ‘em on thick and hope some girl – I’m sorry, your client - is stupid enough to buy them.”

“Most of my clients are fairly stupid. And shallow. It’s sort of inevitable when you work for a Club that hires you for your looks.”

He sounds tired; that exhausted, world-weary edge in his voice. I lean against his back. His spine is rigid, his shoulder blades a comforting sort of hardness on my own.

“D…Did you at least get to use the rope?” I hiccup.

“Not at all.”

“Dang. Must’ve been some nice rope, since she was rich. Like, golden and shit, with gold threads, and like, sapphires in the knots.”

Maybe I’m so drunk I hallucinate, but I swear I feel him laugh, the rumbling vibrating through his back and the sound clear. But it’s quickly swallowed up by the music before I can concentrate through the drunk stupor and determine if it was an actual laugh, or just another angry scoff. The garden is quieter, people making out behind bushes. I point at the slightly-yellow fountain.