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“No.” No, no, no. What has she planned now?
Blake grabs the mic, tapping it twice. The feedback makes everyone wince. “Geez. Sensitive ears here. Anyway. Ladies and gentlemen, thank you all for coming. Tonight isn’t just any party.” Her voice carries over the music, which fades to the background. “We’re bringing back a college classic. A beer pong tournament! Wohoo!”
A cheer goes through the crowd, and I feel the blood drain from my face. This can’t be happening.
Beer pong.
Brandon and I always played. Every party, same wagers, same outcome. Him trying to get me to go on a date. Me winning and making him cook for me instead, which, now that I think about it, could be construed as a date anyway.
“And because you were all so kind to put your names in this bowl…” Blake holds up a glass bowl I hadn’t noticed before, her smirk pure evil. “Let’s see who our first contestants are.”
The crowd shifts closer. I glance over to Brandon, his jaw clenched as he watches Blake dig through the papers.
“First up…” Blake unfolds a tiny piece of paper with dramatic flair. “Oh, Brandon!”
Whoops and cheers erupt. Brandon’s expression doesn’t change, but his knuckles whiten around his tumbler. Any time that glass will break.
“And going against him…” Blake’s eyes find mine across the room. That bitch. That absolute fucking bitch. “What a coincidence. Naomi!”
The crowd parts like the Red Sea, heads turning as they cheer, while in the corner, two guys set up the table.
My feet carry me to it.
I’m going to kill her. Slowly. Painfully.
The red cups form a perfect triangle on each end of the table.
What if Brandon doesn’t bite?
I look up.
He stands at the other end, rolling a ping-pong ball between his fingers. The movement is so familiar it hurts. How many times have we done this?
His eyes lock with mine, and for the first time tonight, there’s a flicker of something. Recognition? Anger? Want?
The crowd presses in around us, their excited chatter fading to white noise.
His voice carries across the table, low and controlled. “Ladies first.” Too controlled.
I shake my head. “Your ball.”
The corner of his mouth twitches, a smile, but not quite. It’s the same expression he wore the first time we played, back when we were strangers, and this was just a game.
“Scared, cupcake?”
Terrified. Of watching him walk away. Of never feeling his hands on my skin again.
My fingers curl against the table. “Remember our usual stakes?”
“Vaguely.”
“If I win, you cook something special.” The words come out softer than intended. “If you win?—”
“A date.” He places the ball down. “That was the deal.”
“Same stakes then?” I ask. “For old times’ sake?”
“Counter offer.” Brandon circles the table, each step deliberate, predatory.