When You Come Back to Me (Lost Boys #2) - Emma Scott Page 0,17
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.
He lit a clove cigarette and observed the group of the school’s most popular kids without a care in the world. His peridot eyes landed on me and widened slightly. The icy green color warmed and grew cool again as he dissected me. According to Evelyn, Holden was some kind of super genius. Whatever it was, it seemed as if he could see through my carefully crafted persona to the confused mess beneath.
Evelyn slunk to his side and linked her arm in his. “Everyone, you remember Holden Parish,” she said as if his very existence were her doing.
“Smoking’s outside, dude,” Chance grumbled.
“You sure about that? Your living room smells like a Snoop Dogg concert.” Holden handed Chance a small paper bag. “A token of gratitude for having me at your little get together.”
Chance’s frown vanished when he pulled out a bottle of Patrón Silver. “Dude. Thanks.”
“Perfect,” Evelyn purred. “Line up the shots, boys, because it’s time to play Seven Minutes in Heaven.”
The kitchen erupted in cheers as Chance lined up solo cups on the island counter. Holden plucked the bottle from Chance’s hands and poured shots for them both.
“To our host,” he said, his gaze flickering to me and then away.
The guys tossed the liquor back. It whacked Chance hard, making his eyes water, while Holden drank his down smoothly and poured another.
“Step right up, ladies and gents, and let’s make some beautiful memories,” he said and instantly became the party MVP.
“You still cutting out?” Chance asked me under a swell of cheers.
“Nah,” I said, sipping my beer. “Changed my mind.”
“Hell yeah!” Chance pressed a cup with a shot of tequila in it into my hand. “Maybe you’ll get lucky and wind up in my hall closet with that sweet Violet.”
I tossed back the shot and felt recklessness infiltrate my thoughts. My gaze wandered drunkenly back to Holden. “Maybe.”
We headed past the formal dining room to the living room where Chance barked at people to clear a space. The music was turned down and some partygoers gathered in to watch. Others sat on the floor where I noticed Miller Stratton with a guitar on his lap. Another new guy, Ronan Wentz, stood over him, arms crossed like a sentinel or bodyguard.
I didn’t know Miller very well except that he was an intense guy and that he was friends with Violet. Four years ago, he passed out in