Page 30 of Slick & Spooky

That’s how I leave him.

Naked. Spent.Mine.

“You look freshly fucked.”

Joey’s sprawled across the velvet chaise in the front foyer, sipping something neon from a solo cup, eyes glued to me as I descend the spiral stairs.

“I didn’t think you’d still be here,” I tell him.

The room’s a disaster. Solo cups everywhere. An empty pizza box flung across the piano like it lost a bet. Someone dragged out folding chairs… like, a lot of folding chairs. They’ve lined them up in weird half-circles, like this turned into a TED Talk while I was upstairs getting railed.

I blink at the scene, confused. Joey must catch the look on my face because he chuckles and takes a sip of whatever’s still in his cup.

“Shit got wild,” he says. “You were getting fucked for over an hour.”

I blink again. “No I wasn’t.”

He arches a brow. “You sure about that?”

“That obvious?” I mutter.

He doesn't answer as he drags his gaze down my body and back up again, expression somewhere betweenseriously?anddamn, dude.

Most of my makeup’s been rubbed halfway to hell, I’m swimming in Knox’s oversized shorts, and my hair looks like it lost a fight with a weed whacker.

“Successful night then?” Joey asks.

I smack my lips, “Definitely tastes that way.”

He grimaces. “You know what? I actually don’t need any of this. I take it back.”

“Smart.” I press two fingers to my lips, sealing them with a kiss.

He gags. “You’re disgusting.”

“You love me.”

“Unfortunately.”

The door to the courtyard bursts open, and for a second I catch glimpses of the remnants of the party.

The courtyard’s a war zone.

Muddy footprints tracked across the cracked patio, crushed beer cans floating in the melted remains of the baby pool, someone’s bra hanging off a tiki torch like a forgotten battle flag.

A folding table’s split down the middle, red solo cups scattered like shrapnel across the concrete, and one poor lawn chair has been melted halfway through from a bonfire that clearly got out of hand.

Condoms. Pizza crusts. A pair of boxers pinned under an empty handle of Fireball. The inflatable ghost someone blew up for Halloween is face-down in a puddle of jungle juice, eerily deflated like even he gave up on the night.

A handful of my pledge brothers clamor into the front room like they’re reenacting the last twenty minutes of The Blair Witch Project. Sweaty, dazed, twitchy.

Then Tripp steps in behind them.

His shirt’s wrinkled, clinging to him in all the wrong places. His hair’s matted from sweat and shame. He looks like someone who got in a fight with a frat house and lost and is somehow still cocky enough to think he won.

Sober Tripp is worse than drunk Tripp. At least when he’s hammered, he slurs. Now he sharpens letting his eyes sweep the foyer and zero in on me like a heat-seeking missile.

“Of course,” Tripp sneers. “You’re here.”