Page 58 of The Deceptions

Nope. That's their corner now and not my business.

People. God. They're everywhere. Touching each other. Laughing loudly over the music and drowning it out. Girls cheer "woohoo!" so loud, I think my eardrums might have blown out.

Yeah, this was not a good idea. Just give me a walker and call me grandma, because I'd rather be knitting a sweater than standing here in this frat house. All I wanted was my warm blankets and a good night's sleep. Instead, I get this loud and out-of-control party with my new roommate. Who seems to have disappeared into the crowd and never returned.

I sigh from the corner of the room I've been awkwardly standing in since Simon left me with a promise of grabbing us drinks. I check my phone. It's been over fifteen minutes since he left me here. Did he get kidnapped? Lured away with the promise of booze and locked in a basement?

Fuck. My brain conjures nothing but terrible scenarios. All of which I've seen on the job. I'm sure he's fine. Maybe he metup with some friends, and now is the perfect time for me to run away and never look back.

But, ugh. Girl code. Or Bro code in this case.

I can't leave him behind at a damn party where anything could happen. Drugs in his drink? Kidnapping? A fire? Even if he's not a girl. He's still my party buddy, and I can't abandon him when he might need me.

Damn you, conscience. Why do you have to be so persistent?

I sigh, leaning against the wall in the far corner of the living room. Or what resembles a living room. There's ratty furniture pushed to the edges of the room with patchwork and stains. A large TV hangs on the wall above the brick fireplace, displaying a movie I don't recognize. Lots of guns, explosions, and early 1920s gangsters run across the screen.

My eyes scan the multitude of flushed faces, catching up with their friends. Maybe I should look on the bright side. I'm here. Alive. And this gives me a glimpse of the people who attend GU.

Buck up, Liv. You got this. Totally got this.

“Margarita?” Simon sing-songs, slurring his words as he dances with one in each hand.

Now he's speaking my language.

Simon slowly swings his hips. A grin stretches across his lips, reaching his glazed-over eyes. Holy shit. There’s no way in hell he could be this intoxicated already. Right? We’ve barely had anything to drink. Or I haven’t. He was gone for a suspiciously long time, which was okay for the job I’m on. The more I can observe and report, the better off I’ll be. But from my vantage point, it’s just a bunch of rich college kids drinking the night away.

Nothing nefarious.

Yet.

“Thanks,” I say over the noise, grabbing the margarita from him eagerly.

I shiver at the cold glass and slowly bring the concoction up to my lips. As a rebellious teenager, I sipped margaritas while the guys drank beers or mixed drinks. We always took them to the treehouse and sipped our booze while the world passed around us. The treehouse, in the middle of the woods between our houses, was our home away from home. A way to escape the mobster lifestyle our parents led.

In true Mack fashion, he always made these types of drinks for me. Using Franco’s stash, of course. No matter how often he got into trouble for it, which was a lot. Franco even resorted to locking up his favorite alcohol in a cabinet. But Mack still managed to get some, despite the consequences.

Just for me.

I hum into my glass, squeezing my eyes shut as the familiar taste hits my tongue, igniting something deep within me. It’s like a taste of home. A memory mixed into the liquid for my brain to conjure and relive over and over again. Like the night when I was sixteen and we were bored on summer break, hanging out in the treehouse.

"It's good, right?" Mack asks, grinning as he watches me sip his latest concoction with hope in his eyes.

This isn't the first or last time he attempts to find me something I'll like. We've gone through the list of mixed drinks, beers, and other assortments. Nothing tastes right.

But this? This delicious cold drink? It's perfect.

My eyes widen at the flavor as it hits my tongue. "Yes," I breathe, eager to take another sip. "What is it?"

Mack grins more, looking smug. "It's called a margarita. We now have a mixer in the kitchen. They had some left over from a party or some shit. It looked like something you might like." He blushes, quickly looking away.

Right. The party at Franco's. We all ducked out the moment the grown-ups decided to go into the basement of his mansion.We know what that means. They're going to talk mob business and probably do freaky stuff I don't want to think about.

"It's so fucking good," I whisper, putting a hand on his arm. "Mack, seriously! You finally found it." I grin when he perks up, smiling so wide I can't dispute the happiness flowing through me.

"Finally," Hux laughs, taking a swig of the beer he stole from the party. "I never thought we'd find you something you actually enjoyed, Trouble."

He’s not wrong. I hate beer. I usually hate mixed drinks of any sort. So, to finally have something that tastes semi-good and will get me drunk? Yes, please!