Page 63 of Forgotten Rules (Rules 4)

Morgan’s accusatory eyes find me, the message they hold crystal clear. Whose fault is that? they ask. And she’s right. I shouldn’t have tried to make him jealous. All it did was come back to bite me in the ass. If Callie shoots her shot tonight and scores, it’s on me.

I bite my tongue in an effort not to bury Zoey under a million questions and unlock my phone with the swipe of a finger.

I have one unread message.

My hopes sink faster than the freaking Titanic at the sender.

Winter.

She was supposed to meet us at Zoey’s but texted me she’ll be riding with the boys instead. Zoey informs us that the Uber will be here ten minutes later.

“Wait.” Zoey shrieks on her way to the door and tries to run back to the kitchen in her five-inch heels. “We need shots.”

We catch up to her, and I chuckle at Morgan’s curious expression. She almost seems excited.

Girl, just wait.

Zoey pours three shots of vodka into small plastic cups and hands us our first bad choice of the evening.

“To an amazing night.” She holds up her cup.

Amazing, huh?

We’ll see about that.

We throw the shots back, Zoey’s liquid courage burning my throat the entire way down, but I’m too busy watching Morgan’s face to care. Disgust. Pure and utter disgust. She gags, her eyes watering as she gawks at us, clearly thinking, “What the hell is wrong with you people? You mean to tell me you drink this… on purpose?”

Zoey and I laugh at her reaction for five minutes before dashing out of the large apartment building and squeezing inside our Uber.

The house is packed. And I mean the kind of packed where you can’t get around without wearing people’s drinks. I had no intention of committing to the “pool” party aspect of this night, but some dimwit from the football team thought his beer would look better on my clothes. Had no choice but to toss my soaked dress and settle for my bikini top. So glad I decided to wear shorts just in case.

Morgan spent the whole drive here swearing she’d never drink again. Until she found herself a sugary, juice-tasting drink that sent her promises of sobriety right down the drain.

I’ve been warning her that these colorful “juice” drinks are still filled with a shit ton of alcohol, only to be told, “Kass, stop mothering me.” I can’t help it. I remember how my first time drinking ended all too well.

Hint: my head in the toilet.

Rounded up around the lousy game the varsity team likes to call the “shot roulette,” I watch Zoey roll the dice that’ll determine the kind of booze and number of shots she has to drink. She gets a four.

Meaning four shots of Fireball.

Her pleading eyes fly to mine.

“Fine,” I give in, and she laughs, passing me two of the four shots. We tip the shots back, and I almost puke—the usual. Next, Zoey drags us to the fridge to stash away her bottles of tequila. There are coolers full of beers scattered over the house, but Zoey’s only ever liked the strong stuff.

As for me, I’d like to still have a liver tomorrow.

“That’s the good shit.” She clutches the full bottle she’ll most likely carry around all night against her chest.

My phone lights up with a text from my cousin.

Winter: I’m here.

Two simple words.

How are they enough to make my stomach churn? I stiffen up without mean

ing to, triple-checking the door every five seconds. If Winter’s here, so is Will. She was riding with the guys.