“What’s wrong with Faulkner boys?” I ask, planting a hand on my hip and leveling her with a stare. “If I recall correctly, you asked me for Maverick’s number.”
“I’m not Royal’s… Whatever,” she says, gesturing at my body. “There’s not a guy at Willow Heights who would touch your ass. Not while you’re under Royal’s protection. Faulkner guys might not know better.”
“Protection?” I ask incredulously. “Is that what you call it?”
“Call it what you want. As long as you’re fucking Royal Dolce, nobody fucks with you.”
“Except the Dolces,” I say, my voice hard. “Don’t make it sound like they’re doing me a favor. I’d take on the rest of the school if it meant I’d be safe from them.”
“You don’t get to make that choice,” she says, starting across the rim of the quarry toward the other bonfire. “When he’s done with you, you can do what you want. For now, I have three pieces of advice for surviving these parties.”
“Obey, obey, and obey?”
Gloria stops and plants a hand on her hip. “Do you want me to be your friend, or do you want me to be a bitch and let you find out the hard way?”
“The first one,” I say. “Sorry, it’s automatic.”
She quirks a brow and ticks off on her fingers. “One, never take a picture of the Dolce boys.”
“And if you do?”
“You better delete it and hope they never find out.”
“Okay…”
“Two, never take a drink from Cotton Montgomery.”
“I thought he was your friend.”
“He’s in my circle, and he lives next door,” she says. “He’s also a total fucking creep. Stay away unless it’s your fantasy to be violated while unconscious, in which case, you do you. No judgment.”
I bite back a snarky comment and nod. “Thanks. That’s really good info to have.”
“Just looking out.”
“I’m really grateful.”
“Then don’t fuck with Royal’s head, okay? He may be the biggest bully on the playground, but he actually is my friend. And I won’t be so nice if you hurt him.”
I snort. “Not sure I’m capable of that. So, what’s rule number three?”
“Don’t fuck with the enemy. So, if you don’t want to start a brawl between schools right now, I suggest you come with me.”
I want nothing more than to go back to my people, but I know she’s right. If Colt’s attack taught me anything, it’s not to give the Dolce boys a reason to fight.
We’re halfway between bonfires when a group of guys who look college age or a little older intercept me on their way toward the party. “Hey,” one of them says. “Are you the girl from that video?”
“That is her, isn’t it?” says another one, a thick guy with a trucker hat and a shirt that reads, Stomp My Flag, I’ll Stomp Your Ass. The sleeves are ripped off, revealing tattoos around bulging biceps.
“Hey, how about that,” says a third guy. “It sure is.”
There are six of them, all of them looking me over like I’m a rabbit about to run, and they’re ready to give chase. Alarm bells go off in my head as I glance ahead to Gloria. The way they addressed me, with their voices sounding friendly but covering an edge of aggression, puts me instantly on the defense. I learned to read men’s tones pretty well over the years, and these are just the type my mother brings home. Men who think women owe them their bodies because they give them attention. Men who don’t outright grab you but follow you at a distance until you make one wrong turn and you’re cornered. Men who don’t ask you to sit on their lap until your mom is in the shower and won’t overhear them. Sneaky, slimy bastards.
“She’s with me,” Gloria says, her voice a little too loud. She starts toward me, but I hold up a hand.
“No, I’m not,” I say, not taking my eyes off the guys. “Gloria, go away. Go back to your party. I’ve got it handled.”
“Are you crazy?” she asks, her voice rising.