Fractured Things - Samantha Lovelock Page 0,66
the crowd of people and stopping along the way to introduce me to some new faces.
We finally make it into the main living room, which, if the last party I was at with the Heirs is any indication, is where they will be. Though I fully expected it, actually seeing Poe here is still a punch to the gut. Sprawled on a regal looking loveseat that’s a deep shade of crimson, his long legs encased in black leather and his black long sleeve collared shirt open at the first few buttons are sinfully sexy. His sleeves are unbuttoned and turned up, revealing muscular forearms and that damn tattoo that makes me swoon all on its own.
Seeing all of that is bad enough, but it isn’t what makes me want to turn around and leave. The leggy blonde draped over Poe’s lap, and shoving her big fake-looking tits at him is.
Before he notices me, his expression is one of boredom and mild annoyance. But as soon as he sees Sunday and I walk up to the group, he makes a show of sliding his arm around the blonde's waist, and pulling her into his lap, making her squeal with happiness. Staring at me over her head, his mouth twists into a cruel smirk that drives an ice pick straight into my heart. There’s a challenge in his eyes, but there’s also something else—something he can’t entirely hide, and I’m not sure what to make of. Suddenly in need of fresh air, I lean over and yell in my best friend’s ear.
“Sun, I’ll be back. I just need to not be here for a minute.” She squinches up her face in concern. “It’s fine. Really. I just need some air.” Reluctantly, she lets go of my arm, and I turn to walk back to the front door, but not before I see her notice Poe’s little show and roll her eyes while flipping him the bird.
“Do you have to be such an asshole, Halliday?”
I leave before I hear his response and thread my way through the crush of teenage bodies to the door. Stepping out onto the expansive porch, I take a few deep breaths of the cool late October night air, the band of tension squeezing my head easing slightly.
How do I manage to get myself into these things?
“Just lucky, I guess?” a raspy feminine voice replies. Not realizing I’d said anything out loud or that there was anybody else out here, I nearly jump out of my skin. The voice laughs lightly before stepping out of the shadows further down the porch. “Sorry, didn’t mean to scare you.” She comes closer and leans against the railing, a long neck beer bottle hanging from the fingers of one hand. “I’m Noli.”
“Stella,” I say, taking stock of the girl beside me. Not quite my height, her icy blue eyes catch the moonlight and stand in stark contrast to her tanned skin and long dark hair streaked with magenta. Something about her feels familiar—more like my old life back in New York. “Do you go to Woodington?”
She laughs wryly.
“Yeah, no. I go to West Hythe. In Ashbrook.” At my blank look, she explains. “Two towns north of here. We’re sort of the black sheep. Like the uncouth, blue-collar cousin people around here pretend doesn’t exist until they need their car fixed or their plumbing replaced.”
“So basically, you’re normal,” I state matter of factly, and she laughs again.
“Normal is relative.” She shrugs and finishes her beer, shaking the empty bottle. “If I’m expected to put up with all of these super-rich, super-elite assholes tonight, I’m going to need another drink.” Stepping off the porch, she turns back to me. “You coming?”
Deciding that going with Noli is preferable to being back inside and watching Poe play with Boobs McGee, I follow her across the triple-wide driveway. We slip around the side of the garages to the back yard, where a small group is gathered around a blazing fire-pit. The mood among the handful of guys is as relaxed and comfortable as their plain hoodies and worn-in jeans, and they all raise their drinks in greeting when Noli introduces me.
“Want a beer?” she offers as she lifts the lid on a large cooler and reaches inside.
Remembering what happened the last time I was drinking at a Folkestone party, I politely decline, and she pulls out a single dripping bottle from the melting ice and twists the top off.
“So, what’s your story, Stella? You look pretty unjaded