Page 80

Josh watches us take our first sips with a look somewhere between horror and admiration. “You two are gonna die.”

“Then let us die fabulous,” Lena laughs, already halfway through hers.

The drinks go down like a treat, and I quickly lose track of how many we’ve had, especially when we start double-fisting those bad boys. Ben takes a picture of both me and Lena holding one in each hand, and from there, the selfie game only gets better.

We have way too much fun posing together. Not just me and Lena, all of us in various poses. At some point, we even try stacking all of us on one chair, which ends in laughter, a broken chair, and spilled drinks.

“I can’t even,” I laugh. My cheeks hurt as I do my best to stand back up.

Josh offers me a hand, but Lena beats him to it, grabbing my arm and pulling me upright like a drunk little warrior.

“We need to dance,” she declares. “Or we’ll turn into furniture.”

The music pulses like a heartbeat on steroids—neon strobing across bodies that don’t move so much as vibrate. Static’s dance floor doesn’t have corners, just pockets of light and shadow where people writhe in time with whatever track the DJ’s throwing at us next.

Our group has grown. Somewhere between rounds, a pack of girls joined us, glittery and shrieking and instantly obsessed with Lena’s dress. Then one of Josh’s rugby bros turned up with two new guys, one of whom is already shirtless and waving glow sticks.

Someone hands me a drink, and despite knowing better, I tip it back anyway, like I’m chasing something I can’t name.

Lena’s dancing with Josh again, all hands and heat and laughter, while one of the new girls drags me into a TikTok she’s filming on the dance floor. I don’t even try to escape. I just pose like I was born to do it, tongue out, middle fingers up.

“Piper!” someone shouts behind me.

I turn to find Ben grinning like he just found the pot of gold at the end of the rainbow. “Okay, real talk? I didn’t peg you for this.”

I arch a brow. “For what?”

He gestures at me with a dramatic sweep of his drink. “For being like this. You’re always so put-together at Blackwood. Like you’d call the manager if your cappuccino had the wrong milk.”

“I’m a woman of many layers,” I shout back, finishing what’s left in my glass. “And FYI, I absolutely would call the manager on your ass.”

“I bet you would, darling,” he laughs, moving closer. “And you can definitely touch my ass.”

I don’t know what to say to that. So I wink and turn around.

The group explodes into another round of cheers when someone starts a dance circle. And when one girl grabs me and pulls me into the middle, I give them a ridiculous spin and shake my ass.

A few of them start chanting my name, and someone whistles. I’m fully aware that I’ll cringe about this tomorrow, but right now? I feel electric. Limitless. Free.

When Ben hands me another drink, I scrunch up my nose after just one sip. It tastes off. Or maybe I’ve just had enough. But since I’m not makinggood decisions right now, I still finish it.

Across the room, Lena and Josh are basically dry-humping against a neon pillar, lost in their own sweaty make-out haze. And me, I get lost in people watching. Not just them, but everyone moving around me.

Ben’s so close I can feel his breath on my neck, and I’m not sure I like it. But when he offers me a fresh drink, I take it with a smile. The first sip tastes wrong, worse than the last drink; bitter, chemical, not the playful fruit-bomb I expected. I use the straw to swirl the liquid around in case it wasn’t properly mixed.

“So, how are you liking it at Blackwood?” I ask, feeling like I ought to say something.

“It’s alright,” he says. “Better when you’re around.”

“Oh my God,” I laugh, immediately booing. “Did you practice that one in the mirror?”

“Maybe,” he says with a grin. “Want to see what else I’ve practiced?”

I nearly choke on my drink and laugh so hard I nearly drop it.

Somewhere in the back of my mind, a voice whispers that this is too much. But that voice is buried beneath the bass, glitter, and the way my body won’t stop moving.

I know that stopping would be the responsible thing to do. But stopping means thinking, and thinking means dealing, and I’m so not ready for that. I like not thinking and just feeling. I’m drunk on the chaos and cocktails—and loving every goddamn second of it.