“Sure.” With a heavy sigh, I walk over. “What do you need me to do?”
“Um… how about you wrap your arm around my waist. I can hobble over that way.” She looks behind me and then bats her eyes. “Unless you want to carry me.”
I look shiftily into the distance. “The waist is fine.”
I do as she asks, sliding my arm around her waist to stabilize her. She leans into me, pressing her cheek, and well, her rack, into my side. Over the stench of alcohol, a waft of oily perfume passes over me, stinging my eyes. Damn.
We start across the campus, me bearing most of her weight. “This makes twice you’ve helped me out,” she says. “It’s like you’re my guardian angel.”
I stare forward and try not to snort. More of a Devil, really. “Don’t sweat it.”
We’re in the middle of the parking lot when she stops and turns to face me, body still pressed close to mine. “I know everyone thinks you’re a bad guy for what you did to Vandy, but I know better now. You’re nice, Reynolds McAllister. I see who you really are under the surface.”
Her fingers are wrapped in my jacket and I try to unhook them. She doesn’t budge.
I grimace at the people in the distance. “Uh, thanks, I guess.”
She tightens her grip on my lapels, rambling, “You should have come with me, you know. I can show a guy a good time, just ask some of your shiny new buddies. All of you are just best friends now, aren’t you? Afton and Bass and Emory. And oh,” she gives a low, scathing laugh, “Vandy, of course. Because she’s the bees' knees now. Everyone just loves Vandy all of a sudden. Vandy, Vandy, Vandy. Isn’t she so pretty and prim and wobbly!”
I narrow my eyes at the contempt dripping from her voice. “Sydney, you’re drunk.”
“Yeah, I may be drunk, but I’m not a fucking addict like your precious Baby V.” She laughs, dark and mean. “You think all her new friends will like her once they find that out? When they hear she’s been gobbling up painkillers like candy for the last three years?”
I look down at the pathetic girl clinging to me. I knew she wasn’t a good friend to Vandy, but telling me that? It was intended to hurt her and me. “You want to know why everyone loves Vandy? Because despite having a better reason than most people, she’s not a bitter bitch.”
Her mouth falls slack in affront, but I don’t regret saying it. Her eyes jump over my shoulder, and then her jaw sets. In a show of quick dexterity that makes me think she’s a lot less drunk than previously suspected, her hand slips behind my neck and she wrenches me down, kissing me hard. Her tongue thrusts into my mouth so forcefully that I almost bite the fucking thing off.
I jerk back hard enough that she stumbles forward on her uneven shoes. “What the fuck!” I swipe the back of my hand over my mouth.
There are tears in her eyes again, but this time her face is twisted up into an ugly, angry snarl. “Fuck you, McAllister. You want a bitter bitch? Maybe I’ll show you one.”
I knew this girl was a hot mess, but Jesus Christ. I didn’t think being nice to her would result in something like that. My phone buzzes, alerting me to the fact we’ve only got about five minutes before the video goes live. Without another word, I walk away. Leaving Sydney and her drama behind, I head toward the gym to find my girl.
35
Vandy
Music pulses from inside the gym, along with flashing lights and shimmery decorations. Afton and Elana did a great job decorating for the dance.
My nerves are on edge, and not just because of the prank that’s looming over all of us. I’m in a shiny silver-blue strapless dress, and I’ve never worn anything like this before. It has a slightly debutante feel, with a wide skirt that bunches at the waist. My boobs feel horrifically squished into the tight bodice, but peeking out the top is an amount of cleavage that one hesitates to call modest. Fortunately, we were able to find matching ballet flats, so I don’t have to worry about any precarious high-heel maneuvering. Aubrey spent an hour on my hair, curling it into tight little ringlets that hang from a sleek updo. The only jewelry I’m wearing is the firefly, which hangs from a delicate silver chain I pilfered from my jewelry box.
My part of the job is easy. Tyson and I meet and greet every attendee, handing out custom-made Preston Prep stickers. It won’t be suspicious, since we’re supposedly taking over the duty from a sick pair of boosters.
“What’s this?” Corey Markham asks. His date, Sabrina Randolf, stands next to him in a tight, sequined dress. He rocks back on his heels and I wave a hand in front of my face, batting away the reek of rum and weed.
“Wear it all night and you’ll be entered into a raffle.”
“For what?”
“Uh.” I glance at Tyson, the pre-arranged lie stuck in my throat.
He covers easily. “Box seat tickets to the Falcons game next weekend.”
The guy shrugs but takes one.
When they enter the gym, I say, “You’re good at that,” nervously running my hand through the remaining stickers. It’s about an hour into the dance, and according to the timeline, about fifteen minutes before shit hits the fan.
“Good at what?”