That Night

Chapter Four

I paused at the door, my fist hovering in midair as I started to doubt my decision to be there. It was Harrison's house, the guy who I hadn't spoken to since I'd introduced my knuckles to his face.

Unfortunately, someone else made the decision for me. The front door swung open, revealing an already tipsy Gordon with a cup of red liquid in his hand. He looked shocked to see me, and I couldn't blame him.

"Whoa, Dash, you came," he said in a slurred voice, stumbling back a step to let me in. Gordon clapped a hand on my shoulder as I entered, causing his punch to slosh over the sides of his cup and drip down his arm.

"Yeah," I muttered, giving him a wary look as I shook the sticky liquid off my own arm. "The party started an hour ago, dude." I took the cup from his hand, dumping it out the door before crinkling it and tossing it over my shoulder onto the floor of the entryway. The house was already trashed, so what was one more cup?

Gordon merely chuckled. "Bro, is your girl coming?" he asked me with a grin that made me nervous. Harrison had obviously let the crew in on his plan.

"My girl?" I repeated, desperately hoping to leave Juliet out of all conversation that night.

It was bad enough that I hadn't invited her while giving no form of explanation, and it was a shame that she was too polite to ask for one. It was worse that I was there, only to be reminded of my newfound and puzzling lust for her.

"Yeah, the lil pixie you're always hangin' with," he said, his comment accompanied by an unattractive gurgling noise that could have come from either end. And Gordon wondered why he never got laid at parties.

"No, she's not 'my girl,' and she's not coming," I replied sternly.

"S'a shame,' he mumbled. "I've always liked her."

I couldn't help but grin at that, patting him on the shoulder and thinking to myself, Me, too.

Leaving my disoriented friend in the front hall, I pushed my way to the living room, where I knew I'd find Harrison. And there he was, sitting on the back of the sofa with our friends – who had clearly taken his side in the matter – surrounding him and a few girls at his feet. They all looked up in surprise when I entered, falling silent and looking to Harrison for guidance. I wanted to laugh at how pathetic it looked, but I found that I wasn't in the mood for humor.

"Dash, where's your costume, man?" Harrison asked, a mocking smirk on his face.

It was extremely fitting that he would be dressed in red from head to toe, making the most realistic devil I'd ever seen – even better than Noelle Dirckens, standing at the punch bowl in red lingerie and tacky plastic horns.

I raised my hands weakly at my sides and shrugged. "I don't know. I wasn't really in the mood to dress up."

Hopping down from his "throne," pointed scepter in hand, Harrison approached me, an unreadable and unnerving expression on his square face. He shoved his hands in his pockets and met my stare. The first thought that ran through my mind was that he was going to punch me, send me away with a bloody nose and be done with his revenge. But no, that would make too much sense. Harrison wasn't like most guys who were content to beat the frustration out and call it a day. He would drag this out for as long as humanly possible, push me to the edge of insanity before finally pulling the trigger. Brinkmanship: that was his game.

"I can't say I'm not surprised to see you," he said, speaking ominously, barely loud enough for me to hear over the music.

"Are you going to kick me out?" I dared to ask, feeling like I was playing with fire.