Double Time ✓

04 | fortissimo

Bay is pessimistic, judgmental and combative. With other people, at band parties, or at the Foxhole, she can change her demeanor like erasing a whiteboard and writing something new. It totally works in her favor. Her face doesn't hurt either, with an angular jawline and features all heroing her deep, dark eyes. If I start looking, I don't want to stop. Guys in a fifty mile radius want to slip their number to her. Girls leave after one conversation suddenly invigorated and radicalized, having learned something dark about people or society that makes them just want to be alone (Bay is a Math and Philosophy major, I can't think of a deadlier combination).

Earlier this year, from a mutual band friend, I heard that Bay talked a girl into breaking up with her boyfriend just to have one night of hooking up with her. When he approached Bay asking about it, she made him cry in public.

When I first met her, I thought she was one of those girls where a hurricane rages on the outside to protect the calm that lies within. Girls who've been hurt before and push others away to prevent another heartbreak. But Bay keeps a calm on her face all day long—sweet and polite enough to charm her teachers, Keller, Foxhole customers, all the rest of the band—just to hide the hurricane within. She entices people in just to play with them.

I think I'm the only one who sees her this way, beautiful but so fucking cold.

I sigh and set four stacks of solo cups on the kitchen counter, telling Quen: "Yesterday I even wished her luck for her audition. I am genuinely being civil about this. What more do you want me to do?"

"You wished her luck?"

"Good luck," I clarify, a pleased smile on my face. Team player, and all.

With a tap on my phone screen, pounding music starts reverberating through the house, all the wooden beams, counters and stairs helping with the acoustics. Someone knocks on the door.

"Our first guests," I smile.

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My favorite party game is strip beer pong.

I am current losing. This means I am only wearing jeans and a sock, cheered on by a big group of loyal supporters. There are about one hundred people packed into the ground floor of the house alone, so every brush of skin or fabric on my naked torso sends a shiver of excitement through me.

Alcohol courses through my blood, a mix of vodka, whiskey, and Quentin's beer. I am swaying on my feet; or the room is swaying around me. The music is fast and sexual and everyone's moving in some fashion—dancing, mixing drinks, traveling through the rooms. The air is hazy with vape and warm with breath.

My competitor, a complete stranger invited by Devin, one of the flatmates, sinks their ball into my last cup and I groan in defeat. I down the watery beer in the cup and slip away from the beer pong table. My supporters from the band clap me on the back and scream words of encouragement, "next time, man, next time!"

Tugging my other sock and shoes on, I leave the kitchen and head to the back patio. Here we go. I find Lien Hoang and Nate Savchenko with a group of seniors on the back porch. Leaning down, I squeeze both of them into a hug, one wrapped in each arm.

"Heyo, people. I love you."

Lien barks a laugh. "Callum, where are your clothes?"

"Lost to the masses," I hum happily, ignoring the way Lien presses her palm into my cheek to get away.

Lien sighs in relief when I step away and slip between her and Nate on the porch step. The outside air is cold on my face, my sweaty neck, my bare chest. "You're going for section leader, right? Who am I kidding, of course you are."