When You Come Back to Me (Lost Boys 2)

I knew my cue when I heard it and moved through the crowd to Violet, wearing my trademark give-no-fucks smile.

“Hey.”

Violet smiled shyly. “Hi.”

“So…this really your first party?”

She laughed. “Is it that obvious?”

“Nah, you’re doing all right.”

“Any pointers?”

“Yeah. If Chance offers you a cup of his ‘world famous’ party punch, say no. That shit is like gasoline.”

She laughed again, and it was time to make my move and ask her to Homecoming. But I was so goddamn tired of putting on this King of the World show when real life was hammering at me like the pulsing music and noise of this stupid party.

I moved in closer to Violet. “So listen…”

“Yes?” She glanced up, her blue eyes large and soft.

“My mom said it was awesome meeting you.”

“Oh. Right.” She sounded as if she’d been waiting for me to say something else. Or ask something else.

I just want to talk to someone and have a real fucking honest conversation.

“You made her happy and that’s a big deal to me. So, thanks for that.”

“Of course. She’s wonderful.”

“Yeah, she is.” My eyes stung and I drowned the swell of grief in a long pull of beer.

“Yo, Whitmore!” Chance called. “Beer pong is happening now.”

I sighed. “So…maybe we can talk more later?”

Violet smiled prettily. “Sure. Yes. I’d like that.”

I managed a small smile in return. “Don’t drink the punch.”

I left Violet to play beer pong with the guys, drinking the time down. Minutes bled into each other and my wandering gaze gave up searching for whatever or whoever I was looking for. When the game ended, we converged in the kitchen for shots while Evelyn talked up a game of Seven Minutes in Heaven.

I quickly downed the rest of my beer. “Hey, Chance, I think I’m going to bail.”

“What? Hell no. It’s not even ten.”

“Yeah, but I’m—”

“Oh goody, everyone’s here…” Evelyn said loudly, then lowered her voice to a satisfied purr. “I take it back. Now everyone is here.”

I lifted my bleary gaze and my damn heart jumpstarted.

He’s here. And the part of me that had been seeking, stopped.

Holden Parish lounged against the kitchen counter as if he’d been there all night. But for a blood-red scarf hanging loosely around his neck, he was dressed all in black. The sheer fucking perfection of him seized my attention and refused to let go. He reminded me of the vampire, Lestat, from the Ann Rice books I’d stolen from my mom’s bookshelf and secretly read as a kid. Lestat moved across centuries, always elegant, always making the era conform to him.

Holden doesn’t give a fuck what anyone thinks about him.