by Jenna Scott
My phone buzzes on the bed, and I see it’s a text from Emmett.
You coming tonight? I can pick you up on the way. : )
Ha. Emmett dropped me off after our study session the other night, so he knows where I live, and that means he’s well aware that my apartment is hardly “on the way” to this guy Matt’s house. Thanks to all the gossip I’ve overheard this week, I know for a fact that Matt lives up in the hills in one of the rich neighborhoods. Still, it would be nice not to have to take a bus there when I’m all dressed up, get all disheveled from walking, and then have to awkwardly walk into the party all by myself.
What time? I text back. Still getting ready.
I agree to be downstairs at 8:30 p.m. and turn back to my mom’s closet with fresh determination. Her idea about wearing the denim jacket over a dress was good—plus, if I leave it unbuttoned, it won’t matter that it’s too small for me.
In the end, I settle on a navy blue dress that’s cut low up top and hits me mid-thigh, which is way out of my comfort zone and probably more suited to a date night, but with the casual jacket on top it should be okay. My mom doesn’t have much in the way of jewelry, but I find a silver chain with a simple star pendant on it that hangs mid-chest and adds a little bit of flare. Hopefully, I won’t draw too much attention. The whole point of this party is to have a good time, not get accosted by the fashion police.
After a quick shower, I bend over and dry my hair upside down, scrunching in a bit of Mom’s volumizer to give my waves a bit more oomph. Then I get dressed.
My makeup takes twice as long as usual. In addition to my usual tinted moisturizer and pressed powder, I go to town with the smoky eye effect after watching a YouTube tutorial and then brush the apples of my cheeks with blush. My lashes feel heavy with mascara, and my lips are sticky with red gloss, but I’m happy with the end result. I look a little older, a little more mysterious, and a lot less like someone you’d call “the help.” Take that, Hillary.
My phone buzzes with another text from Emmett, and I realize it’s a few minutes after nine. Time to go.
On my way out, Mom gives me a once-over. “Not bad,” she says, reaching for her purse and rummaging around in it. “You have money for the bus?”
“I got it, Mom,” I tell her. “See you later.”
“Have fun. And be home by midnight!” she calls after me, and I give a little wave as I close the door behind me.
On the drive over to Matt’s, I notice Emmett side-eyeing me.
“What? Did I pick the wrong outfit?” I ask, suddenly anxious.
“No, not at all,” he says. “You look great.”
“So do you,” I tell him. He’s wearing perfectly fitted jeans, a black button-down, and some kind of fancy woodsy cologne that smells so nice it has to be super expensive.
Matt’s street is so packed with cars that we have to park a block away. Even if I didn’t have Emmett with me, I’d know which house the party was at—every other person we see is heading in the same direction.
“How big is this house?” I ask, sliding out of the SUV. “There must be a hundred people showing up.”
“Big enough,” Emmett says with a shrug.
We walk side by side, and I’m content feeling the cool ocean-scented breeze against my skin while Emmett tells me about the Richardsons and the Roys and the families he grew up around. How he, Matt, and Steve Roy have been going to the same schools since they were toddlers. Must be nice, having friends that go back for so long. I wonder how Danielle, the friend I had for six months back in Fresno, is doing.
“…what made you change your mind?” Emmett’s asking. I’ve lost half of the question in my reverie about Danielle but assume he’s talking about the party.
“I guess I wanted to prove to the bitch brigade that I can fit in just fine.”
Emmett glances over. “What if it’s better that you don’t?”
Shaking my head, I tell him, “The high school game is different for me, Emmett. If I stand out, I make myself a target. Someone to be taken down. Even when I’m not at a private school full of elitists, I still feel like I don’t belong.”
“You think I’m an elitist?” he asks, sounding amused.
“Never,” I tell him, bumping him playfully with my elbow. “You’re one of the good ones.”
We slow our pace as we come up to the house, a Mediterranean-style mansion that looks the same as all the others in the neighborhood. White stucco, arched windows, wrought iron balconies, and a carved wood front door. The muffled sound of music pounds from within.
I notice a girl sitting on the lawn under a huge palm tree lit up from below, her hair in two pigtails. She’s wearing a sleeveless white shirt with a tie and bopping her head to the music as she drinks from a red cup. Once she spots Emmett, her face breaks into a grin.
“Emmie!” She sets her cup down and barrels down the driveway, tackling him in a hug. “Tell me you’re here to save me from Steve’s bad breath and even worse jokes.”
“Consider yourself saved.” Emmett returns the hug, lifting her off her feet, and finally they release each other. “Isabel, meet Camilla.” He gestures toward me. “Camilla, this is Isabel. We’ve known each other since, what...”
“Second grade. And nice to meet you, Camilla,” Isabel says with a smile, and before I realize it, she’s hugging me too. She’s petite and bubbly and just a little bit punk, with various safety pins adorning her plaid skirt, a piercing in her lower lip, and ballerina flats with little spike studs on them.
“I love your shoes,” I tell her.
“Thank you!” she says, kicking up one foot behind her like she’s modeling them. “Do you go to our school?”
“Sort of. Monday was my first day.”
She raises a mischievous eyebrow, her hazel eyes bright underneath. “Has Emmett’s mom invited you over for cookies yet?”
I laugh. “Yes, and ten out of ten, would eat again.”
“Right? They’re gooey perfection and fill your belly with warm hugs!” Isabel very seriously takes a hand to her heart and sighs. “Ah, Mrs. Ortega. I’d marry her if she wasn’t married already.”
“Ugh. Can we please not?” Emmett groans.
“Pfft, relax.” Isabel nudges him with her elbow. “Your mom’s cookies are half the reason you’re popular.” She goes back for her red cup and takes a swig. “And now I need a refill. Shall we?”
“I don’t know,” Emmett says. “Is the party that bad that you had to come drink outside?”
“Meh. More like people being dicks and Steve not letting up. Seriously, how many times do I have to shoot him down?” She sighs. “Plus, it’s seriously hot in there, so I came out for some fresh air. But I’m ready for round two.”
We step inside, and I stick close to Emmett while Isabel leads us to the living room. The smell of weed and beer is strong, and I see at least two spilled drinks on the white carpet plus someone sitting by the open window smoking a cigarette. I instantly feel sorry for whoever has to handle the cleanup afterward.
On our way through all the people and furniture, I notice Hunter out of the corner of my eye, talking to some blond guy I don’t know. He’s got his arm around Hillary’s waist—she looks irritatingly chic in a black miniskirt and matching crop top with a light pink, silk boyfriend blazer worn open to finish off the ensemble.
Hunter doesn’t seem to notice me. But Hillary does, and flashes me the nastiest smirk before whispering something into his ear and then nuzzling his neck.
The room shrinks, and I immediately avert my eyes, the air too hot and thick in my throat. Isabel’s hand tugs mine as she guides me to the kitchen, and I let her.
We come to a halt in front of a huge island piled up with bottles and kegs.
My eyes drift over the many options on display.
“What do you want?” Isabel asks, pouring herself a vodka and red Gatorade.
“Can you make me one of those?” I say, pointing at her drink.
“Coming right
up.”
Even though I’ve never touched alcohol before, tonight I’m ready to try it. Because if I’ve learned anything from my mom, it’s that it turns you into someone who’s numb from the inside out.
And that’s exactly what I need right now.
Chapter Eleven
Camilla
Three drinks later, and Isabel and I are having a blast. We’ve spent the last two hours drinking and talking by ourselves in a corner, and I feel like I’ve known her my whole life. When I let it slip that I’m embarrassed I had to borrow one of my mom’s dresses because I can’t afford new clothes, she said I wore it well. And that you don’t need a lot of money if you know how and where to shop.
“This entire ensemblé,” she says, pronouncing it on-som-blay and gesturing at herself from head to toe, “cost me twenty bucks. And most of it was for the shoes, which I studded myself.”
I gasp. “No way.”
“Yes, way.” She threads her arm around mine and looks up at me. “We should go shopping together. I will teach you my DIY tricks and bargain bin ways. This tie? Seventy-five cents at Goodwill from the boys’ section. My shirt is just last year’s uniform with the sleeves cut off, and the skirt is a hand-me-down from my cousin in—”
A hiccup breaks her speech, and she slaps a hand over her mouth, but not before we both dissolve into drunk giggles.
Our cups are empty again, so we go pour ourselves another round on the other side of the kitchen, where Emmett seems to be playing bartender. “Hey ladies, maybe you should slow down…” he starts, reaching out to stop us, but Isabel slaps his hand away, the laughter gone from her lips.
“If we want to get shit-faced, Emmett, we get shit-faced,” she says very seriously.
“Yeah,” I pile on, even though a small part of me knows he’s right. The room’s starting to spin whenever I move, and if it weren’t for the solid surface of the island, I’d probably be toppling over. “Let us drink!”
With that, I take a long swig of the vodka-rade. It’s really growing on me.
“How are you two already ganging up on me? You literally just met.” Emmett sighs and shakes his head but doesn’t try to stop us again.
“We’re kindred spirits,” Isabel spits. I realize I’ve become aware of how her face lights up every time she looks over at him. And now that she’s pinching his cheek, she’s positively glowing. “Don’t be jealous, Emmie. We’ll still be your friends so long as your mom keeps baking those crack cookies.”
The smartphone connected to the speakers starts sounding an alarm, and someone rushes to stop it. Voices die down in the sudden silence, and a guy stands on the coffee table in the adjoining living room to shout, “Ladies. Gentlemen. It is time!”
“Time for what?” I whisper to Emmett, but he doesn’t seem to hear me.
The guy—who’s really just a blurry figure to me at this point—gestures to the doorway where Matt Mason grins and yells, “Whoever’s playing, follow me upstairs!”
Kids start drifting off with him, though I still have no clue what this is all about. Before I can ask more questions, Isabel’s arm goes around my shoulders, and I realize she’s herding me along with her toward the stairs.
As we walk, she explains, and it all clicks as I remember Hillary’s minions talking about this in the girls’ bathroom the other day.
“So it’s basically seven minutes in heaven, except instead of just kissing in a closet, you get seven minutes in the kink room.”
“Wait, the what room?”
“It’s not scary,” Isabel assures me.
I am not at all assured, but before I can even think about making a run for it, we stumble into what must be Matt’s parents’ bedroom along with everyone else.
Despite my warm, fuzzy haze, I can see it’s tastefully decorated with a four-poster bed, plush carpet, and elegant dark wood furniture. There’s a little hallway at one end of the room with three doors, two of which open onto a bathroom and a walk-in closet, and as for the third, which is closed… I assume it must lead to the kink room.
The fifteen or so people in here are busy arranging themselves in a circle on the floor, and Hillary’s sitting in the middle with a grin on her face and an empty Ketel One bottle in her hand.
Isabel pulls me down next to her on one side of the circle, Emmett goes off to the other side, and as I tug the too-short hem of my dress over my knees, I take a look around. The copious amounts of alcohol I’ve consumed must be working. My anxiety seems distant and irrelevant, and instead of being nervous, I feel giddy and unafraid.
As host, Matt has the first turn, which he eagerly takes. My heart races as the bottle spins and spins on the rug, but I’m fully prepared to accept my fate if it ends up pointing toward me. Besides, I’m sure I can use a whip to defend my integrity if necessary. Or whatever else Mr. and Mrs. Mason have in there.
But then the bottle lands on some other girl, and I’m cheering along with everyone else as someone calls out their names and says, “Here goes round one!”
I have to say, being drunk is not as bad as my mom makes it seem. I feel at ease, I’m not trying to pick any fights, and when I catch Hunter staring at me, I’m totally unselfconscious about it. Hell, I even flash him a smirk.
The minutes must fly because someone’s phone alarm goes off and then Matt and the girl I don’t know are walking out of the mysterious room with blushing faces. Then the bottle’s spinning again.
“You doing okay?” Isabel asks next to me. I nod just as the bottle slows down and stops to point at someone else. Isabel leans to whisper in my ear, her words a little slurred as she explains who’s going in next with whom and what their backstory is.
“Who should go next?” Hillary asks, eyeing us all one by one. Her gaze sweeps past me, and I’m sure she’s about to pick someone else when she announces, “I know! How about new girl?”
“Drunk people shouldn’t play,” Hunter says, interrupting Hillary. He turns to me and says, “Just leave, Camilla.”
“I’m fine,” I insist, indignant. “Besides, everyone here is drunk.”
That draws another cheer from the people in the room, and then Isabel is grabbing the bottle from Hillary and putting it in my hand.
Before anyone can stop me, I give it a spin, almost afraid to see where it lands. Anyone but Hunter, anyone but Hunter, I think to myself, my heart pounding so hard I can feel it in my chest. And then, Please let it be Hunter.
But it stops on Emmett.
Relief washes over me. At least I got someone I know, someone who won’t try to make a move.
I get up so fast it makes my head spin, but I don’t let it stop me. Holding out a hand, I bravely profess, “Come on, Emmett. Let’s see what floats the Masons’ kinky boat.”
Emmett’s hand is sweaty, and it’s a struggle to stay upright while I help him off the floor. Several “Oooooohs” and “Hee-hee-hees” follow us as we enter the kink room and close the door, and for a moment, I’m actually speechless at what I’m seeing.
“Oh. My. God,” I let out, looking around at a surprisingly spacious room that has walls covered in padded pink velvet. There’s a swing on the far end, a table with leather straps that someone already lowered from the wall, and a shelf filled with all kinds of toys and ticklers and other unidentifiable kinky accoutrements. “Do you think everything’s been properly disinfected?”
Emmett bursts into an awkward laugh and pulls me toward him so we’re face to face. He looks into my eyes, and even through the alcohol, I can sense a weird tension between us. “So, um. Camilla. I don’t know if y—”
“Agh!” I squeal, breaking away from him to grab a pair of red fuzzy handcuffs I’ve spotted on the shelf. “Wow. These are so soft,” I murmur, holding them up to show Emmett. “Put your hands behind your back and spread ‘em.”
“No way!” he says, reaching for what looks like some kind of flogging device. Holding it up, he lowers his voice and does a spot-on impression of our World History teacher. “Miss Hanso
n, are you familiar with the leading causes of death among sailors? Answer right or prepare to receive a historically accurate punishment. Ten lashes!”
Grinning, I grab the flogger and lightly slap it against my palm, which hurts more than I expected. “Ow! Do people seriously enjoy being hit with these?”
“I suppose it’s all in the touch?” Emmett says, stealing it back and twirling it around in his hand. “And who’s doing the flogging.”
He’s looking at me again, too seriously, and I blurt, “If they don’t call this the Chamber of Kinks, they’re missing a golden opportunity.”
“You mean…” Emmett wags his eyebrows. “The golden snitch of opportunities?”
Laughter bursts out of both of us. After it dies, another awkward silence is born where we’re both kinda giggling, and I notice he’s standing too close. I scramble for another joke, but then gasp because I’ve found the craziest, purplest thing in the room.
“Holy purple dildo-in-a-harness, Batman.” My jaw hangs open, and I let loose a fit of giggles. I no longer know the concept of shame, so I grab the whole thing and wield it like a sword. “En garde, Emmett!” I make a wobbly stab toward the flogger he’s still holding, laughing so much that tears prick my eyes. Emmett’s laughing too, bent over and clutching his stomach.
The door opens, and a voice professes, “Time’s up!”
Relieved and still catching my breath, I wipe my eyes and put the harness back. Before we leave, I catch Emmett looking at the floor a little wistfully. Like maybe he’s disappointed all we did was joke around.
Or maybe I’m just drunk and reading too much into it.
Putting those thoughts aside, I step outside the Chamber of Kinks, still giggling like a fool, but glad I’d talked myself into coming tonight. It wasn’t so bad, this party.
Everyone is cheering, as they did with all the couples before us. I’m not paying much attention as I trail behind Emmett and end up almost colliding with a very broad, very muscular chest as we make our way down the dim hallway. I raise my head, but my gut already knows it’s Hunter who’s in front of us, whose smell of vetiver cologne is filling my nose. How the hell does he still smell so nice?