A Bird in Flight | ✔︎

Chapter seven: Falling for him

Ensley

I AM POSITIVELY TERRIFIED as I walk up the driveway to this party Callan invited to me Monday morning while I was walking in between classes. What's worse is that I had no time to interrogate him about the details because he hasn't been at school all week. And what even worse than that is that Sam refused point-blank to come and protect me.

Just lay low, I tell myself, trying to stop my heart from slamming against my chest. You'll be okay. It will be fine. Oh God what the hell am I doing? It's a Tuesday night and I have no clue who any of these people are. I should be at home, tucking my sister into bed and raging over my neglectful mother.

Cars line up and down the streets and even more are pulling up around me. Already people are passed out drunk on the front lawn. Plastic cups and bottles of beer and vodka scatter the driveway and lawn, some empty, others spilling its contents onto the concrete and grass. Other teenagers—mostly drunk or high—are playing beer pong, hollering and stumbling around, or making out in the shadows of the awning.

The front door is wide open and the curtains of the windows have been drawn, allowing me to see the people dancing, drinking, talking and kissing inside.

The music thunders the ground beneath my feet, blasting out some horrendous rap song no drunk teenager can keep up with.

And then I walk inside. Instantaneously the smell of alcohol, vomit and weed burns my nostrils. Breathing deeply through my mouth, I struggle through the dense crowd of teenagers. Girls with their tits hanging out of their tank tops and boys with their creased trousers and tight black shirts that make their muscles show.

Girls jump around with their friends, screaming the wrong lyrics to the song together not giving a shit as their drinks spill over the edge. Boys chant out drinking songs as they play drinking games, their knees buckling, their eyes glazed, their grins wide and lopsided. Boys and girls hook up against the walls without caring of the judgmental eyes narrowed on them.

The flashing bright lights and the terrible smell of sweat, smoke and alcohol is making my vision blur and my stomach shake with nausea. My chest squeezes as claustrophobia kicks in and I know I need to get out of this crowd.

Panting, almost sobbing, I push through the crowd of reckless, drunk teenagers when I see boys fighting in the lounge room, fists raised as blood pours out from their nostrils. Someone blows cigarette smoke in my face and I cough, fanning myself as I stumble forwards.

When I reach the kitchen I see boys taking shot after shot over the countertop or clustered in groups with pills in their hands.

"Callan," I whisper aloud. "Where are you?"

A dark haired, hazelnut eyed boy comes rushing past. He pulls up short when he sees me: This weird girl who fits into no social circle dressed in a tank top and short back skirt.

"Are you alright?" he asks, looking concerned. He seems to be the only one sober—apart from me—in this whole house.

I nod, drawing a shaky breath. "Yeah I'm just looking for Callan Beckett."

He grins. "His completely wasted so watch out. I'm Jaxon by the way. His out the back by the pool. Be careful though."

"Thanks. I will," I assure him and quickly duck around him and head to the backyard. Cool air hits my face as I exit the house; opening up the sliding glass door.

Breathing in fresh air, I pull my shoulders back and straighten up, determined not to appear weak in front of Callan, drunk or not.

It's a lot less chaotic out here. Small groups of girls have gathered in small circles to gossip and talk. People float on their backs in the pool, eyes lifted to the night sky. Steam rises from the hot tub beside the pool.

And that's where my eyes meet Callan's.

His arms slung around two drunk girls shoulders, a bottle of beer in his hand and a wide smile on his face. His cheeks are reddened from his massive alcohol consumption, his eyes hazy and unfocused as he runs his tongue over his ruptured lip. His drunk. Very drunk. Maybe that's why his wearing a shirt in a spa.

I approach him carefully, blood pounding in my ears. "It's not safe to be in water when you're so trashed."

"Babe, I'm ain't fucking wasted. I do whatever shit I wanna." His words are slurred as he rises from the hot tub, his hand grabbling for its edge. Maintaining his balance, he swings his legs over the tub, stumbles a few feet and collapses into my arms. My knees buckle a little at his weight but I manage to keep a hold of him.

"I'm not like him," he whispers, burying his face into my hair.

"What?" I say, completely bewildered.

"I ain't ever be like dat man," he mutters, his face scrunched up as he pulls his face from my hair, hands gripping my hips. "Aah just don't touch me ribs. I fink broken."

"You're drunk," I tell him.

"Bullshit. Ribs hurt though. Fuck."

"Is that why you haven't been at school?" I ask, slightly alarmed by the glazed look in his emerald eyes. "You got into a fight?"

"Of a sort," he mumbles, eyes rolling wildly in his skull.

"I'm guessing you lost. Your face is all bruised and puffy, did you know? Actually, you look like pure shit. Have you looked in the mirror recently, Callan?"

His fingers trace my lips and he leans in closer. Pressing his open palm against my chest he mutters, "You're so damn beautiful, Ensley Steed."

And then he slings me away from him, shoots me a crooked grin over his shoulder and cannonballs into the pool. Girls shriek as water splashes onto them.

I let out a horrified scream, fling my purse to the ground and dive in after him, burning so fiercely with the desire to save him that everyone else fades away.

Hooking my arm around his waist, I go to push off from the bottom of the pool to propel us upwards and bring us both to safety. But then, with surprising strength, he slings me around in front of him and slams his mouth against mine.

I told myself to stay low and of trouble.

And now I'm kissing a drunk Callan Beckett underwater.

His lips are warm and soft despite the cold water. Water fills my lungs as his tongue slides into my mouth but I don't care. Staring into those emerald eyes, my heart slamming into his broad chest, I fall for Callan Beckett. I want him. Warmth spreads through my body, starting at my heart, then slowly expanding, filling me up until I'm brimming and overflowing with desire and lust for this bad boy.

Just as his tongue runs along the roof of my mouth, his eyes close and his arms go slack. Grabbing his muscular arms, I yank him to the surface of the pool, half expecting to find him dead. But he simply drags himself onto the pool ledge, coughing, spluttering and laughing like crazy.

"Oh my God, are you alright?" I ask anxiously as I crouch down beside him

He sniggers, pushing back his sopping blonde hair from his eyes. "Better dan eve."

"You mean ever?"

"Dunno whatcha said. Sayin'. Dammit. Hey, babe, we go upstairs? You cute." He rises to his feet and grips my wrist fiercely.

"What?" I'm smiling. I can still feel his tongue in my mouth and his heart knocking against my chest as he wrapped his hands around my body.

"Bedroom. Upstairs. Now," he states clearly, mischief sparkling his green eyes.

"Sure." Screw being a good girl. Screw hiding from this world of despair, hatred and pain. Screw masking everything from Callan Beckett, the boy I've loved since fifth grade and the boy who saved my life.

Screw everyone.

I'm going to let go of the suffocating misery that cloaks itself around me. I'm going to be a teenager for just one night. Fire burning within my eyes, my heart, my soul, I hold out my hand to Callan who takes it.

"Lead the way, Prince Charming."

He bows and nearly falls over when he goes all cross-eyed. "As you wish, Princess Jasmine."