Page 71 of A Little Jaded
Please, I silently beg.
Teeth grinding, Drake moves toward me through the circle. When his boot hits the edge of the bottle, it rolls to the side. Griffin grabs the long neck, testing its weight while staring up at Drake. Just as on edge. Just as ready.
I lift my head, waiting, refusing to cower as Drake stands over me.
“You’re done, Raine?” he asks.
I nod.
“We’ll see.” Then he turns and leaves, taking his friends and what’s left of my oxygen with him until they disappear through the front door. My shoulders slump forward.
Ho-ly. Shit.
The party is silent. It’s like in the movies when you swear you’re in a vacuum, and everyone’s looking at you. Watching you. Studying you. Like you belong in a zoo or beneath a microscope. It's not long until a loud clap reverberates through the air.
Reeves slaps his hands together, demanding everyone’s attention. He cups his hands over his mouth and booms, “All right, I’m over this game. Let’s meet in the family room for musical chairs!”
Chaos follows as everyone but me stands. Some head to the family room as instructed, while others head to the basement, carrying up folding chairs and placing them along the edge of the family room. Like a well-oiled machine, everyone moves around the space, preparing for the game change as I watch from the side of the room in awe when a hand appears in front of me.
I look up, taking Everett’s offered hand.
As he pulls me to my feet, he asks, “Do you want to play, or do you want to call it a night?”
If I call it a night, Drake wins. He’ll have ruined my night. If I stay, will I even be able to focus on the game? At this point, I have no idea.
“Raine?” Everett prods. He moves in front of me, blocking out the entire world around us as I look up at him. “I’m proud of you.”
I pull back, surprised. “What did you say?”
“I said, I’m proud of you.”
“Why?”
“For standing up to him.” He lets my hand go and squeezes the back of his neck. “And, uh, you’re not a…you’re not a slut,” he forces out. “It was a dick thing for him to say.”
I laugh dryly and fold my arms. “Thanks.”
“Don’t let him get to you.”
“Who said I let him get to me?” I challenge.
His gaze bounces around my face, making me feel vulnerable and more seen than I’d like to admit.
“I can see it,” he explains.
“Yeah, well.” I lift a shoulder. “Cutting me down is kind of his M.O. when he’s frustrated, so…”
“Doesn’t make it okay.”
“You’re right. It doesn’t,” I reply. “But, it’s kind of par for the course with him, so don’t worry about it.”
“I’m sorry I was such a dick when we first met,” he adds.
My brows bunch. “What?”
“I was a dick. I called you stupid for dating him, and”—he looks at the ground as his tongue runs along his upper teeth—“it was a fucked-up thing to say.” Meeting my gaze again, he adds, “You aren’t stupid, all right? Honestly, you’re one of the strongest people I’ve met, which considering my friends and family, is saying something.”
My breath hitches as his words wash over me, but I force my lungs to exhale and peek up at him again. “Well, since we’re complimenting each other, I want to thank you, too.”