A joint dangles from my lips as Devlin and I move through the crowd, bumping fists with people here and there. A dirty bass line plays from a wireless speaker, the distorted sound flooding the woods at the edge of the abandoned quarry off Blackhawk Road. After it closed it was filled in. Now all that remains is a gravel lot at the base of the mountain. A few Coyote Girls, townies, and chicks from the two public schools dance on truck beds in skintight ripped jeans and cowgirl boots. Laughter spills through the night and a sense of wild debauchery threads through everyone’s energy.
It’s the perfect place for illicit partying in Ridgeview, the access road rarely used since the new highway was built. The only people that come through hit it up during the day for the old hiking trail that heads up into the Rockies.
I scan the crowd for Landry. Everyone is getting rowdy before the fights start. I’ve got something on almost every person here in my files, from my soccer teammates to the people who run in my crowd. Everyone is fair game. It’s become an ingrained habit, one I don’t plan on quitting anytime soon.
Landry is hanging by a classy white Jeep, thumbing through a wad of cash with a guy I don’t know while he flirts with the hot girl sitting on the hood. Maybe he’s a townie, but Landry hands him the cash, so he must run with him. He looks like an odd match to Landry, a punk with a leather jacket, messy dark hair, and a mean glint in his eyes when they land on me. I have no idea how Silver Lake’s starting quarterback and this guy could have crossed paths.
I leave Devlin with the guys and head for the Jeep. The girl Landry’s talking to lets her knees fall open and he steps between them with a wolfish grin. I recognize her as a poli-sci post-grad who joined my mom’s campaign staff over the summer.
“Did you close out the call for bets?” I ask as I lean against the Jeep. The campaign staffer’s eyes go wide when they land on me. I wink at her and tap my nose. “What mommy dearest doesn’t know, right?”
“Uh, yeah,” she answers with a strained cough.
To be extra welcoming since this is the first I’ve seen her at an SLHS party, I offer my joint. She hesitates, then accepts it, taking two hits and grabbing Landry to shotgun the smoke into his mouth.
“Nice,” I say.
Landry flips me off without breaking the kiss with the campaign staffer. His friend rolls his eyes and stalks off with a grunt.
Being discreet, I record a short video clip of them kissing to add to my blackmail collection. Papa Landry would blow his lid at the scandals his son is wracking up. What would be more interesting is if Landry’s younger sister shed her good girl veneer and proved to be even naughtier. With that tight little yoga bod she has, I wouldn’t mind seeing what sort of trouble she could get up to.
Cute as little Maisy Landry is, my mind drifts to Thea and those dime curves she keeps hidden under oversized clothes. I thumb into our message thread. The last text she sent to “Wyatt” was a selfie with a cake she baked after school. I didn’t give a shit about the cake, more interested in the fact her hair was tied up in perky pigtails. Fucking pigtails. I work my jaw as a bolt of heat shoots to my groin.
A surge of cheers drowns out the music, drawing me from my thoughts. People move in droves from where the cars are parked in the gravel lot into the tree line. The headlights spill into a clearing through the trees. I guess the first fight is starting.
Devlin finds me and we head over together. He hands me a beer and lights up a cigarette. We join the crowd circled around two guys duking it out, grunting when their punches land.
Fight Club rules apply, bare knuckles and no shirts. A few guys are positioned around the clearing to deal with any idiot filming for the likes on social media. Landry’s leather jacket friend is one of them, pushing a hand through his hair as he narrows his cold gaze on a couple of chicks taking selfies near us.
One of the fighters in the ring is on the student council at school, with string bean arms, cheeks already pink with exertion and they’ve barely begun. Thanks to my weekly summons from my dad to the school office before therapy, I also know Mr. Student Council was accused of peddling Adderall last week. He swings with gritted teeth and manages to clock his opponent in the chin. The other guy stumbles back a step to regroup, then comes in with a quick one-two jab to Student Council’s weakly guarded center.
The underground fighting is about letting out aggression. The betting is fun, but hardly any of us need the money. Ridgeview is a town that hit it rich in the gold rush era and the sun’s been shining down on us since.
Devlin snorts, the sound dark and amused as Student Council successfully takes down his larger opponent, using speed against strength to maneuver the force of gravity on his side. The bigger guy goes down and Student Council wails on him, blood staining his teeth from a split lip, pure murderous rage blazing in his eyes.
It’s violent, unhinged, and fucking glorious.
Landry steps into the ring and blows on a whistle clenched between his teeth. Grabbing Student Council’s wrist and wrenching it into the air, he barks, “Winner. Next challenger in the ring in two minutes, or you forfeit your buy-in.”
The crowd shuffles, waiting for the next person to step forward. Once they do, another match starts. Student Council goes down in two hits, knocked out and sprawled in the dirt.
As the following fighter enters the clearing, my phone goes off in my back pocket. Devlin exchanges a curious glance with me as I step away from the crowd. The name on the screen has me grinding my teeth. Mom.
I debate not taking it, feeling a muscle jump in my cheek from how hard my jaw locks. If I ignore it, she’ll only hound me once I get home. Big fat FML either way. What a pain in the ass.
“I’ve gotta take this. I’ll be back,” I tell Devlin before I jog away from the party. Lifting the phone to my ear, I answer, “What?”
“Is that any way to answer your mother, Connor?”
“I could’ve not answered,” I say dismissively as I pass the cars where some people are still hanging out and talking, and head for the old storage building.
“Where are you? It sounded loud when you answered.” The judgement is clear in her tone.
Rolling my eyes and scrubbing a palm over my face, I lean against the rusty corrugated metal siding, kicking at the weeds popping out of the gravel at my feet. “People from school. We’re hanging out at a friend’s house.”
She hums on the line, uppity even in her non-verbal communication. That socialite upbringing always shines best when she’s disappointed by whatever way I’m embarrassing her now.
I don’t have all night for this. “What do you want?”