Wrangled

Everything was clear from that one sharp glance my way. He knows I’m here. He knows I keep sneaking peeks at him. He even just looked straight at me over his shoulder, as if checking to see if I’m still looking at him.

And I was.

And I want to again.

My grip tightens on my plastic cup of punch so much, I could break the flimsy thing if I’m not careful.

Are we playing tennis, Chad and I? Are we exchanging secret glances at one another without the other realizing?

Is he waiting for me to break down into tears and run away?

Is he laughing with his buddies right now, pointing me out, wondering if I’m checking out his ass like the big homo I am?

“Yes, that’s right, Mrs. Strong is furious that the class isn’t having the reunion after-party at her ranch, since it’s her precious Tanner’s ten-year,” Mindy is in the middle of telling all of us—not that I’m paying any attention. “Something to do with Vanessa Evans being the valedictorian of our class, and the principal adores Mrs. Evans, so they’re going to host. Ugh, I can’t keep up with it all. As long as there’s booze, I don’t care where the hell it is. But at least Mrs. Strong’s restaurant is catering the reunion itself tomorrow—small concession. I mean, throw a dog a bone, am I right? I’m drunk.”

I peer back over my shoulder at Chad.

He’s still looking my way.

And none of his buddies are. It’s just him. It’s all him.

I snap my gaze back to the women in front of me once again, my heart racing its way up my throat. It was too daring, to look his way again and give him even the tiniest satisfaction of knowing that I’m still sneaking looks at him, that I see him.

That I also very much know he’s here.

I clamp shut my eyes and take one deep breath after another.

I want to leave suddenly, but I can’t make my feet move.

I want to disappear, but I’m somehow incapable of magically turning invisible.

I want to teleport back to my apartment in LA, but there isn’t an app for that yet.

Mindy is still talking. “—and if Robby and Vanessa are still a thing, I’m pretty sure it means that everyone who—”

My foot starts tapping uncontrollably.

My eyebrow twitches in the most annoying way.

Fuck. I haven’t had these nervous ticks in years. And I’ve been to a party in Beverly Hills with Lady Gaga as a surprise guest. Why am I still holding this cup of punch? My pants feel too tight suddenly. The material of this tight shirt of mine doesn’t breathe. Is there a tiny hair sticking out of my nose?

“—which doesn’t make much sense, since they can only—”

Suddenly I toss the cup back and gulp it in one shot.

Punch isn’t supposed to burn like lava going down. But this deceptively innocent little cup starts an immediate fire in my belly. Goodness, Tanner wasn’t kidding; this punch is spiked strong. And I’m unable to stop. I go right for the punch bowl again and help myself to no less than four more cups, each of which I promptly guzzle in turn.

“Are you alright, Lance?” asks one of the other ladies, cutting off Mindy mid-sentence. “The punch ain’t gonna run away.”

I set my emptied cup down too hard on the table. My throat is on fire. “I think I’m getting tired. Jet lag or something.” I wipe my forehead of sweat that isn’t there. “I’ll, uh … see you all tomorrow. The reunion is here, isn’t it? The school? This heinous pit of hellfire we attended?” I lick my lips. They taste like berries.

“Yep,” confirms Mindy, eyeing me with concern. “5 PM.”

“Great. Sounds delicious. Goodnight.”

And with that, I make a beeline for the doors.

My thrashing heartbeat follows me with every fast step, like a persistent and skillful drum behind my head, beating, deafening.

I’m barely three steps outside of the gymnasium before a firm, strong voice hollers out at my back. “Lance?”

I stop.

I don’t have to turn around to know whose voice that is.

3

Him

There is a moment of quiet. Then the gymnasium doors shut, heavy and certain as a judge’s gavel, and the silence returns.

And I know he’s there behind me.

I can hear him breathing.

“Lance?” he tries again, much softer.

Even his voice is the same: deep, gritty, solid, yet impossibly smooth. Easy to listen to, depending on what he’s saying. A tone of dominance is always one subtle push away, with that deceivingly seductive voice of his.

Like silk bed sheets hiding a gun.

“Wow, I thought that was you,” he mutters, blowing one soft chuckle out his nostrils before drawing quiet again.

There is always a tone of mockery in his voice, even when he’s making small talk, or speaking sweetly. I couldn’t trust it then, and I don’t trust it now.