“And so are you,” he calls back.

  I leave the cooler, hurrying back to the front.

  I’m not going to go tomorrow night. The last thing I need is another party. Even if it’s Iron’s last for a while.

  Whatever happens there won’t make my life better, and I have alcohol at home.

  And I really don’t want to risk Aracely slashing my tires again. I can’t afford it.

  At five thirty, I leave, carrying Macon’s reheated dinner down the road, but the garage is closed.

  I knock on the front door, Aracely answering after a minute as screams go off in the background and Dex peals with laughter.

  I hold up the bag. “Dinner for Macon,” I say.

  I start to take a step in, but she moves in front of me, grabs the bag, and dumps it in the trash can outside, on the side of the porch. “They’re barbecuing tonight. You can go. Thank you.” Her face lights up with a self-satisfied expression. “Or…are you working the ‘night shift’ tonight?”

  I back up, her meaning not lost on me.

  I drop my eyes, seeing her long smooth legs in a beautiful line right down to the black ankle boots with silver buckles and a three-inch heel. “Cute shoes.”

  She arches a brow and walks away, leaving the door open. I smile after her.

  We’re going to be friends. She just doesn’t know it yet.

  Trace swoops up, pulling me inside. I spot Army and Dallas, busy in the kitchen, and Iron on the floor, playing with Dex. My smile spreads at how cute they are, but then it falls. He’s spending time with his nephew while he can.

  “Stay,” Trace tells me.

  I shake my head. “No. You’re having a family thing. Besides, I’ve got to get home to my brother and sister anyway.”

  “Bring ’em,” he says, excited. “This won’t be ready for an hour. Go get them and come back. They can play with Dex.”

  Paisleigh has talked about Sanoa Bay all week. She’s dying to get back.

  “Like, seriously,” Trace whispers, coming in close and putting his arm around me. “Macon is on a short fuse lately. We could use as many buffers as possible.”

  Mmm, tempting.

  Macon strolls down the stairs, hair wet from his shower and pulls on a T-shirt. He swings past us and into the living room like we aren’t even standing here, and I see faint circles under his eyes again. Army and Dallas pause their conversation as he enters the kitchen, and then I hear the clank of beer bottles and the fridge slamming shut.

  Army looks over at me, tipping his chin in greeting, while Dallas stares at me like I should leave.

  I don’t look, but I can feel Iron watching me.

  “I have to get home,” I finally tell Trace and turn to leave. “You guys have fun.”

  “Dress up tomorrow night!” he calls after me.

  I suck in a huge breath all the way to my dad’s car.

  6

  Krisjen

  Twenty-one to drink, eighteen to sleep over.

  I laugh at the picture on my Instagram feed, a sign hanging on the outside of the Jaeger house tonight.

  I look out the window of Mariette’s, seeing the bedsheet with the blocky black letters billow in the light breeze. Trace can be clever when he wants to be. And I have no doubt that sign was all his doing.

  My phone rings, and I see Clay’s name. I swipe, answering it. “Hey,” I singsong, clearing the dirty plates from an empty table. “Having fun?”

  “Oh my God, it’s fucking freezing up here.” I can hear the shiver in her laugh. “But New England is super pretty, and I should’ve known Liv wouldn’t have dodgy friends. I like them. But I’d like them better in Florida.”

  Part of me wishes she’d decide to transfer up to Liv’s school. I’d miss her, but I’d love to live vicariously. Olivia Jaeger and Clay Collins are most beautiful when they’re together.

  “What are you dressed as?” I ask.

  “Look at IG. We win Halloween. And you?”

  I pull my phone away from my ear to check the picture she must’ve posted, but then I remember I’m still talking to her. “I’m not dressed as anything,” I tell her. “I’m going home.”

  “No, you have to go to the party.”

  “Why?”

  “Because I need more dirt.”

  I exhale hard, dumping the dishes next to the dishwasher. “Yeah, at my expense. Jesus, you’re priceless.”

  “Oh, just go for it,” she says. “I would.”

  “Easy to say now from the comfort of a committed relationship when you don’t have to suffer any of the consequences for careless behavior.”

  “Whatever.”

  Damn right, and I open my mouth to tell her that, but she cuts me off.

  “So hear me out,” she says in my ear. “I told Liv your situation—”

  “Oh, Clay! You didn’t.”

  “Hold up.” She rushes to defend herself. “She agrees with me. She says it has to be Iron.”

  “She’s going to think I’m treating her brother’s bedrooms like musical chairs.”

  Why would Clay tell her? Liv is my friend, but she’s their family first.

  But Clay kind of mumbles. “That’s actually nothing she’s not used to, growing up in a house full of bachelors.”

  “But I’m her friend. It’s different.” I rip off my apron and throw it in the laundry bag by the back door. “I’m not telling you anything ever again.”

  She seems not to hear me. “She says Dallas wouldn’t touch you with a ten-foot pole…”

  I stop. “But he touched Amy last spring—”

  “And she says it’s possible that it’s Army, but on the couch doesn’t sound like him. He prefers privacy.”

  That’s probably true. I’ve never seen him go upstairs or come down with a woman. He always goes to their places. He shares a room with his infant son, so that’s understandable.

  So, likely it was Iron, then. “Okay, so…what?” I ask her, grabbing my bag and heading out the door. “He surrenders at the jail in the morning. What am I supposed to do? Fall in love with him?”

  “No. You go to that house, go up to Liv’s room, and pull out the Mad Hatter costume from her closet that she made in high school. Then you go up to him and pick a fight. Let him ravage the granddaughter of the man who’s sending him to prison.”

  Jesus.

  But I slow as I walk, feeling the breeze on my legs and hearing the sway of the fronds on the palms. We might get a storm tonight.

  I want to see him one more time. How could he fuck up so badly? How could he be leaving? Macon is right to be angry.

  Macon…

  I raise my eyes, seeing light glowing from inside the garage down the street, a shadow passing in front of one of the windows.

  “Krisjen?” Clay says when I don’t reply.

  I take a second, but then I ask. “What did she say about Macon?”

  My voice comes out smaller than it was.

  She says nothing, but I hear something brush over the phone and muffled words in the background. After a few seconds, she comes back on.

  “You don’t want it to be him.”

  But it’s not Clay’s voice in my ear. It’s Liv’s.

  “If you think it was,” Liv says, “I wouldn’t pursue it.”

  Why?

  “Besides,” she adds, “he would never screw my friends. It’s Iron or Army.”

  But wouldn’t they have mentioned it? Or been more obvious?

  “Keep the costume,” she tells me. “I’m guessing it’ll hold some memories for you after tonight.”

  “Oh, it’ll get dirty,” I tease.

  She expels some kind of disgusted sound, and I laugh as I continue walking. “Bye.”

  We hang up, and I pause mid-step next to my dad’s car before I veer left again and keep walking to the Jaeger house. Screw it. I can say goodbye to him. This could be it, right?

  I pass the garage. Macon isn’t there, but the hood of my car is up, a drop light hanging from inside it and tools propped around the edge.

  The sign Trace painted on a sheet billows from the windows above as more cars pull up and music pours onto the overgrown lawn from the open front door. Without looking at anyone, I dive into the house and jog up the stairs, walking straight for Liv’s room. Once inside, I drop my bag and dig in her closet.

  Liv worked behind the scenes of our high school’s theater department for four years, and she never threw anything away. She’d take discards from costume designs and make them into something she could wear. There was a tweed vest cropped indecently that I fell in love with the last time I was in here, but I don’t see it now. She probably took it to college.

  Finding the Mad Hatter costume, I take it out and start undressing. It’s a spectacular outfit. She always made the costumes without approval. She thought if she could show the theater teacher her new idea rather than describe it to her, it would go over better. It rarely did.

  But she tried.

  Liv was always trying to get roles that weren’t traditionally played by women. For the longest time, I didn’t understand why. The audience doesn’t want to see a female Captain Jack Sparrow or Hannibal Lecter played by a girl. They won’t show up for a woman performing as Darth Vader, Vito Corleone, or John McClane.

  Norman Bates, Han Solo, Neo, and Freddy Krueger are men, and the world doesn’t want to imagine that it could be different.

  But…they’re great roles, and if I were an actor like her, I could see the allure of playing them. They’re complex. Males in a story always get the great scenes. The great lines. The epic fights and battles and power plays. They can be loners and villains, criminals and crazies, and no one really worries about why they’re doing what they do. Motive isn’t important. They can murder, fight, blow things up…No one thinks less of Sherlock Holmes because he was never married or never had children. If a woman wants to be a spy, we wonder why. What happened in her past to make her reject a home and a family?

  Liv didn’t want to be Ophelia, Desdemona, or Juliet’s nurse, because they were either manipulated, victimized, or subservient. And how often do we find ourselves still playing that shit every day? It’s not a challenge.

  Sometimes I want to blow something up, and I don’t even care why.

  I finish donning the patchwork skirt that falls mid-thigh, button up the sleeveless waistcoat with nothing underneath, and slip on the red velvet fitted jacket. I tease up my hair, add some blue and green eye shadow, and then finish it off with a bow tie around my naked neck, a top hat, and some lipstick.

  I gaze in the mirror before realizing I’m barefoot and dig in Liv’s closet for the boots, one purple and one green.

  A crash sounds downstairs followed by a muffled shout as someone passes by on the other side of Liv’s door.

  Grabbing my phone, I head down.

  The floor vibrates under my feet, the music banging against the walls, and I hear laughter behind me. Two guys I don’t know slam the door to Iron and Dallas’s room and race past me. I jump out of the way.

  “Sorry,” the brunette one says, smiling and still laughing with his friend as they jog down the stairs. A fresh bruise sits on his neck, similar to the one I had a week ago.

  The door behind me opens again, and Dallas steps out, pulling on a T-shirt. His hair falls in his eyes, but then he slicks it back over the top of his head, the dark strands threaded through his fingers.

  His green eyes bore into me as he passes, and I’m pretty sure Dallas wishes I were a man. He could hurt me then.

  Chromatics’ “Whispers in the Hall” starts as the lights suddenly dim, and only a blue glow fills the downstairs. People howl with excitement as I come to the bottom of the steps, and I look right, seeing couples dance in what I think used to be the dining room. But I’ve only ever seen a pool table in there. They hold each other close, bodies moving into each other, and I can make out a zombie nurse, a cat, a Camp Crystal Lake counselor in short-shorts and tube socks, and a ghost with an erection tenting his sheet. Clever.

  I start to look for Iron, but then I remember Clay saying she posted pictures of her and Liv’s costumes. I check Instagram, tapping on her latest pic and enlarging it.

  Clay is dressed as James Bond, complete with fitted tuxedo and bow tie. Her blond hair, in loose waves, is teased and big, while Liv—interestingly enough—is dressed like a Bond girl. Tight, sleek red gown, the shiny silk showing every curve, the slit in the fabric teasing all the way up her thigh. I laugh to myself. She puts up a fight over what role she’s told she has to play, but for her girlfriend, she’s happy to be dominated.

  “Is that Liv and Clay?” someone asks over my shoulder.

  I glance at Trace as he peers at the pic on my phone, his chin practically resting on my shoulder.

  “Yeah.”

  He smiles. “That’s cool.”

  A guy wearing skull face paint passes by us with a young woman’s hand in his. My gaze immediately drops to her chest, unable to not notice.

  Holy shit.

  They walk up the stairs, other heads turning as they go.

  I tuck my phone away, turning to Trace. “Was she seriously just dressed as a wet T-shirt contest winner?” I snort. “That’s awesome.”

  He hooks an arm around my neck, grinning. “You’re not at a high school party, honey. Or a St. Carmen one.” He leans into my ear. “There are men here.”

  Yeah. I know. I’ve been to some parties here, thanks.

  I look back up at him. Black pants, black belt, no shirt. The word SAUCE is written on his abs in blocky black letters. Then there’s an arrow pointing down toward his groin.

  “What are you—?” But then I stop, realization dawning. Hot sauce. I roll my eyes.

  He chuckles. “What are you supposed to be?”

  I open my mouth to answer, but someone else does instead. “Welcome to the mad tea party, Hatter.”

  I glance up, seeing Iron approach, his John Wick costume looking entirely too good not to be a daily thing. Black suit, white shirt, and black tie all chic and fitting like the outfit was especially made for him, but I know Iron wouldn’t have wasted money getting a costume specifically tailored. His black hair is pushed back, but a little to the side, and while he doesn’t have a beard like Keanu, he might look better, because the Jaeger boys’ green eyes are something else when they wear black.

  “You’ll fit right in,” he teases, paraphrasing a quote from Alice in Wonderland.

  He takes my hand, and Trace releases me, walking on my other side as Iron leads me.

  “Please tell me you are actually serving minors?” I ask them.

  Trace arches a brow. “You sleeping over?”

  “If she drinks, she stays,” Iron says, holding out his other hand. “Give me your keys.”

  I look up at him.

  And I take out my car key, dropping it into his hand.

  Sliding it into his pocket, he takes my hand again and leads us to the kitchen, where the L-shaped counter is full of food and the shorter section has been turned into a bar. Iron takes a cup, uses it to scoop ice out of a cooler, and then lifts the bottle of rum, looking to me before he pours it.

  I nod, and the next thing I know, liquor is sloshing over the cubes, damn near filling the glass. My eyes go wide, but I don’t say anything as he adds some ginger ale to whatever space is left in the cup.

  He hands it to me, and I can’t help but laugh. “Thanks.”

  They’re whiskey and beer guys. I’ll make my own mixed drinks next time.

  I sip, instantly feeling that anticipation that the promise of alcohol brings as the spice burns my throat. Iron pours some Macallan over ice, while Trace pops the top on a beer and the song changes to something harder. A cup drops, its contents spilling. I look up, seeing the garage, outside the kitchen window, full of people, too. Macon sits on a brown leather couch.

  He’s burrowed into the sofa, slouching with his head resting against the back of it, staring off.

  Turin Wilcott is at his side, sitting on her legs and trying to get his attention. Her hand is on his thigh.

  “Does Macon know her?” I ask, taking a sip of my drink.

  She’s a Saint. Several years ahead of me in school. She must be twenty-five or so by now. Curvier, blond, and she has a hell of a lot more money, which she’s been spending like crazy since she broke up with her fiancé.

  Iron replies, “I don’t know.”

  I watch her lean in closer and slide her hand up his shirt, touching his stomach. His eyelids drop as the bottle in his hand tilts. Jim Beam. It’s already more than half-gone.

  He raises it to his mouth and swallows, closing his eyes as the liquor goes down his throat.

  I frown. “He doesn’t look right.”

  Iron scoffs, dropping a few more cubes into his cup. “He’s having some fuckin’ fun for once.”

  “And he’s out of our hair,” Trace adds.

  I look between them, both of them busy moving on with having a good time, and it bugs me. I glance at Macon again, knowing that he’d probably subject them to verbal abuse if they tried to interfere. Or tell him he’s drinking too much lately.

  They know him better than I do, I guess.

  I take the shot Iron holds up in front of me, all of us tapping our drinks in a cheers before we shoot them. Peppermint burns my throat, and I close my eyes, feeling the music under my skin. I lean back into a body I know is Iron’s.

  He reaches around me with one arm and picks up his drink, his other hand on my hip. “Go,” he tells Trace. “She’s with me tonight.”

  I look over at Trace, his eyes flashing to me and then his older brother. I turn around, facing Iron. “I’m with you? When was that decided?”

  “In the cooler yesterday.” He cocks his head. “I could’ve had you then.”

  Trace passes by, leaving us to it. I’m not with him, either.