Page 19 of Unwritten Rules (Rules 1)

You know how in the movies the girl and the boy get into a fight and you hear dramatic music as she leaves?

Well, my movie scene sucks. Walking away from Blake seemed like a good idea at the time. But now? I’m forced to admit that Mr. Liar was right. I barely know anyone in here. Some faces I recognize from the school halls pass me from time to time but none that I could actually call “friends.” Will, Kassidy, Kendrick, and Alex are also nowhere in sight.

Is this Hide from Winter Day and no one told me?

“Come with us, he said. It will be fun, he said.” I curse under my breath, the bundle of pain that used to be my feet taking me to the staircase. I look down at my heels and wince. Why did I do this to myself?

I go up the stairs in an attempt to escape the loud music busting my ears and sigh in relief when I reach the second floor. The music is still loud enough to make you deaf but somehow a bit more bearable. I glance around. Doors. A lot of them.

This house is bigger than my house and Maria’s combined.

I lean back against the wall, trying to gather my thoughts. I look down at the empty red cup I’m holding. How’d I drink this disgusting rum and Coke so fast? I guess my boredom is to blame.

That’s when I hear it.

Moans.

A mattress squeaking.

Immediately, my eyes jump to the slightly opened door a couple of steps away from me. Really?

Well, it sure looks like everybody’s having fun but me.

Then, it stops. I’m about to go back downstairs and escape this nonintentional eavesdropping when a female voice reaches my ear.

“That was incredible.”

No reply. The mattress squeaks again.

“What are you doing?”

No reply. Again.

“You’re leaving?”

Then, after a long pause, she finally gets an answer. “Yeah. The party’s waiting.”

The voice obviously belongs to a male. I know I shouldn’t be listening, but I can’t help it. Plus, technically, it’s not listening. It’s hearing.

“But I thought maybe we could…” She doesn’t finish her sentence. She doesn’t need to. It’s obvious that she wants to cuddle. The sound of a zipper being pulled up hints that her not so charming prince is getting dressed.

“Don’t give me that look. You know I don’t do that kind of thing. I told you. We have fun together. But that’s all it is. Fun.”

Harsh.

At least he did tell her exactly what he wanted from the start.

“Asshole,” she hisses, and before I can run away or at least pretend that I wasn’t listening to their conversation, the door swings open. She storms out of the bedroom, her heels in her left hand and her broken heart in the other.

She has mid-length dirty-blonde hair and pale eyes. She is so tanned it makes me wonder if she spends every day of her life outside.

Says the pale Canadian who can only tan three months a year.

Wearing a tight and short black lace dress that could make any head turn, she’s the definition of “dress to impress.” I get it though. She has the body to do it.

Then she notices me and I realize how obvious it must be that I was listening. She gives me the dirtiest look she can possibly muster, her eyes as red as scarlet and her heavy makeup smudged all over her face. She is both wasted and baked.

The golden chain clasped around her neck catches my eyes. It reads a name.