exciting revelation, but I can’t seem to feel anything anymore. Not turned on, not revved up, not anything at all except…
Wrong.
This is all wrong.
Wrong time, wrong place, wrong girl.
“Archer?” Sienna’s head tilts. She’s gazing down at me in a way I’m sure she thinks is sexy — duck-bill lips, hooded eyes — waiting for my answer. When I don’t immediately give it, she takes my cock into her hands, pumping with the methodical expertise of a professional. “Don’t be shy. I know you want to fuck me… ”
Her voice holds no room for doubt. Why would it? She’s fucked every guy on the baseball team. It’s basically a rite of passage.
Chug a beer at home plate, then run the bases.
Toilet-paper Coach Hamm’s house before the first game.
Prank the rival team from the neighboring town.
Hook up with Sienna Sullivan at a house party.
“Sure,” I hear myself say in a dead voice, forcing my arms to lift from their place on the mattress. They’re stiff — like I’m a robot being operated via remote control, my decisions in the hands of someone else — as I reach for the condom on the bedside table.
Tear off the foil.
Roll it on.
Reach for her.
Hate myself.
“Let’s fuck.”
Chapter Three
JOSEPHINE
The house looks like the crime scene from a multiple homicide, bodies strewn everywhere. Jason Samborn is passed out in a heap on the pool table, a puddle of drool forming on the green felt. Several couples are hooking up right out in the open — writhing against walls, pressed together in semi-dark corners, too desperate to wait for their turn in one of the bedrooms or too intoxicated to care.
Following the pounding bass, I make my way toward the back of the cabin, where an open-concept kitchen and living room area looks out over the jagged Atlantic coastline. The water looms with dark presence, pressing against the rocks just beyond the edge of the terraced lawn.
For a summer house, this place is massive — bigger than most normal people’s year-round homes. But Lee Park’s family is anything but normal. His grandfather owns half of Singapore, along with a slew of other properties scattered across the globe. (Which makes him the third-richest kid in my graduating class, second only to Eva Ulrich, whose great-great-great-grandfather patented the tube sock, and Carl McDonald, heir to a multi-billion-dollar fast food empire.)
I step hesitantly into the sunken den area. Twin sisters Ophelia and Odette Wadell are snorting lines of Adderall off the glass coffee table, their identical platinum bobs swooshing around their faces as they chase with shots of chilled Grey Goose. Someone I don’t recognize is face-down on the other half of the sectional, one hand still clutching a green Jell-O shot.
Classy.
In the kitchen, half the baseball team is huddled around the island playing beer pong with stacks of plastic red cups, a keg waiting at the ready. Every time a ball makes it in, a fresh round of cheering and chest-bumping erupts.
Amid the hubbub, one of them spots me. Ryan Snyder, varsity first-baseman. He’s probably the nicest guy on the team — meaning he doesn’t outright ignore my presence at their parties. He always waves to me when I hang out in the bleachers after school, waiting to catch a ride home with Archer when practice ends.
Ryan is attractive in that All-American, Abercrombie model sort of way — tall with sandy blond hair and six pack abs, which are currently on full display. His red bathing suit is still damp from the pool, riding low on his hips, and he’s sporting a tan despite the fact summer has barely begun. It’s hard to believe the New England sun is strong enough to produce such a deep bronze in May.
“Yo! Valentine!” he yells over the strains of the Drake song blasting from the speakers, halting me in my tracks. “Where have you been hiding? Get over here and do a celeb-shot for me. My partner disappeared.”
My brows lift. “A what?”
“Celebrity shot.” He proffers a white plastic ping-pong ball, grinning widely. “Come here, I’ll show you.”
I wander closer, hoping the low lighting hides any trace of my tears. “I don’t want to do a shot, Ryan. I’m not drinking.”
“I’m not talking about a shot of alcohol, dummy. I’m talking about subbing in for a throw on my team.” He mimes tossing the ball into a cup, his wrist snapping expertly. “Haven’t you ever played pong before?”
I shrug noncommittally.
“That’s just sad, Valentine. Truly.” Shaking his head, he herds me farther into the kitchen, his