Last Chance Summer - Shannon Klare Page 0,3

I said, handing it back.

“You think I put too much in?” she said, returning the cup to the holder. “I thought it was good! Had two before I left the house, actually. And I’m happy to report that so far there are no serious side effects. Except for a buzz, I’m feeling pretty good over here.”

I rolled my eyes. Nikki was never one to pass on a drink, but she usually gave me warning before we went somewhere.

“If I knew you were drinking, I would’ve kicked you out of the driver’s seat,” I said, shifting toward her. “I’m totally fine being the designated driver.”

“I’m fine to drive!” she said, waving me off. “You know I can down at least four vodka sours before I start feeling them. Hashtag, tolerance.”

“Hashtag, irresponsible,” I said, shaking my head.

“Besides, it isn’t that strong,” she said. “It’s vodka fruit punch or something. The juice waters it down. No worries.”

“Famous last words,” I muttered, staring out the window again.

Trees outside grew thicker with each passing mile. When Nikki turned down a country road ten miles later, I pulled a tube of lip-gloss from my bag. She pulled off the road shortly after, the flicker of firelight amplifying as we drove through a line of trees.

Baker’s Swamp was bursting with cars and occupied by what seemed to be 90 percent of Crighton High’s student body. With a town as slow as ours, it wasn’t surprising to see this many people at the party. Still, my nerves stood on end. Anxiety and anticipation mixed with excitement.

Nikki wedged her Prius behind a Mustang, leaving barely three inches between my door and an all-too-familiar Chevy. I eyed the truck as I slid through the opening, my pulse quickening at the LSU parking tag in the window—Mitch.

“Come on, slowpoke,” Nikki said, slipping through vehicles ahead of me. “We got places to go. People to see.”

“Friends to keep upright,” I said, hurrying after her.

Her walk wasn’t as straight as normal, the sway in her saunter too obvious to go unnoticed. She had no reason to be behind the wheel of a car. She had even less reason to wander this party without someone watching her back.

We passed through clusters of people, humidity clinging to my bare arms and legs. A vintage Beatles tank top and blue jean cutoffs were trendy enough to fit in, but cool enough to spare me from the heat of the swamp. I absently rubbed my arms, eyeing people as the smell of burning pines carried on the breeze.

Ahead, a bonfire raged. Most of Crighton’s junior and senior class stood gathered around the fire, red Solo cups in their hands.

“Want a drink?” Nikki said, glancing at me over her shoulder.

“How about a beer?” someone said from my right.

I glanced that way, eyeing Smith Saddler as he crossed a thick patch of brush with two beers in his hands. With jade-green eyes, perfectly styled brown hair, one heck of a saunter, and dark blue jeans, he was Crighton’s closest thing to an athletic hipster. He carried the look well, and he knew it.

“Thanks!” Nikki said, taking a bottle from him. She put her lips to the rim, winking at me as she turned and headed the other way.

“She’s drunk,” I said, crossing my arms.

“Then I probably should’ve kept that beer,” he said, grinning.

Smith’s charm and overpowering stature were a recipe for trouble. He could talk his way out of a paper bag, then talk someone else into it.

“I texted Nikki earlier, asking about you,” he said. “She didn’t think you’d make it. Glad to see she was wrong.”

I eyed him. His sharp jawline and broad shoulders were carved to perfection, covered by a fitted button-down rolled at the sleeves. Too bad he was dangerous. One experience with a smooth talker was lesson enough.

“You probably should’ve been more worried about your wardrobe than whether or not I would be here,” I said, grinning. “What’s with this outfit, anyway? You look better suited for a photo shoot than a party.”

“Um, the outfit wasn’t my choice,” he said, sipping his beer. “I had a meeting with college scouts earlier. Figured it was easier to head straight here, and get first shot at talking with you, than it would be to head into town, change, and try to steal you from another guy.”

“You should’ve stopped to change.”

“You should’ve gotten here earlier,” he said.

He held the bottle out for me, but I declined.

“I’m not a beer girl, and I’m driving,” I said, shaking my