Demon Kissed - Katie May

1

Have you ever been absolutely, one hundred percent sure that ultimate humiliation was about to head your way? Like, have you ever had chest-clenching anxiety and just known that you were seconds from wanting to sink into the deepest, darkest hole you could find and live there forever, until your fingernails grew into claws and you forgot how to talk and could only growl like Swamp Thing?

That’s how I feel right now as Stacy clutches my wrist and drags my unwilling heels toward William Washington. He’s only six feet away across the grass, red Solo cup in hand, chuckling at someone’s joke and brushing his epic bangs aside. His honey brown eyes crinkle at the edges as he laughs, and my heart gives a longing thu-thud. But my intuition just knows…talking to him will be an utter disaster.

Just like last time.

“No!” I whisper-screech, batting at her hand.

But she has those fake shellac nails that provide military-grade protection against my weak attacks as she pulls me through the moonlit cemetery that has become tonight’s Lakewood Prep party spot.

“You’re doing it. You’re talking to him,” she grits out as she readjusts her grip on my arm, which has suddenly become slick with nervous sweat. With her free hand, she bats her blonde bangs out of her blue eyes so she can turn a laser glare on me. “You never come out, Kat. You’re talking to him.”

“I can’t,” I whimper. “Don’t you remember the tick disaster?” Last time I tried talking to William, a month ago, I got so nervous that I accidentally spouted off facts about the lifecycle of the tick. (Our dog got ticks. And Google is a black hole. Shut up. Stop laughing. I’m sure you’ve done it too.)

“You can,” Stacy croons, as if speaking softly will convince me. Newsflash, I’m half-deaf. Can’t hear at all in my right ear. Speaking softly is a sure way to get me to ignore you. Stacy knows this but continues anyway. “You’ve been crushing on him for years. And now you’re both here, and it’s night, there’s candlelight—”

“Because someone put fucking candles on the gravestones!” I hiss.

“Hey, no bashing the party decorations,” a guy on my left says. I turn and scrunch my nose at Stacy’s latest crush, David. He’s a new guy, transferred in a few days after school started, and Stacy has been stuck to his ass from day one. Just like a tick.

“Dave, a little help?” I plead with the football player.

“Nope. Better you than me,” he quips. He’s not wrong.

Stacy is bull-headed. Always has been. That’s why David’s easy-going nature is the perfect fit for her. Unfortunately, he’s not the perfect fit for me when I need a defender from her overzealous matchmaking.

Foul. Or penalty. Or whatever the football-y saying is—he’s totally in trouble.

Stacy finally succeeds in dragging my pouty ass over to the popular kids’ circle, which she’s tangentially part of based on her daddy’s bank account.

I immediately turn my frown upside down because I have no chill and zero ability to play it cool or fit in with these apathetic people who are bored by the sight of Maseratis—my dream car, by the way, and a cherry red Maserati Grand Turismo is totally not boring, at all. Instead, my smile turns widely fake, and I toss my dark pink curls awkwardly over my shoulder as Stacy starts up small talk.

I do not look directly at William Washington. That would be stupid, like looking at the sun. He’s totally like the sun, with blond hair that has this seventies vibe that I love, which contrasts completely with the preppy polos and khaki shorts he always wears. And boat shoes. He wears boat shoes to school. How cute is that? It totally says, Yeah I’m rich, but these are also the closest thing to slippers that you can wear in public, and I’m wearing them. Whatchoo gonna do about it?

I’ll tell you what people do. Copy him.

Boat shoes have suddenly been the in thing at Lakeside Prep. I stare at William’s boat shoes, admiring the loops in the laces.

Yup. I’m not awkward at all. Especially not when his best friend, Jason, calls my name and I’m forced to look up and my cheeks turn as pink as my hair, as blood flees my head and ensures I am absolutely incapable of thinking clearly enough to form an intelligent response to his question.

Jason—never Jace, he hates Jace—looks at me with a soft kind of pity in his brown eyes when he