He told me to stay out of his way.
He said I didn't belong in his world.
He called me a spoiled brat.
Tristan Malone was an a**hat of the highest power. The black sheep of the Malone family, so why had I been crushing on him since grade school? The...
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I swayed in time with the music, my arms over my head, and a red solo cup gripped in one hand. Sweat, beer, and hormones permeated the family room turned into a dance floor. House parties weren't my scene, but tonight I was someone else, anyone else but Everly Scott.
The clothes, the makeup, the music, the half gone drink in my hand, none of it was me, but I wanted to prove to Preston—to myself that I wasn't boring and predictable. I could be fun and spontaneous. I could let my hair down, hike up my skirt, and not give a fuck about what anyone else thought about me.
Or so I told myself.
Actually, not caring was harder than it sounded in my head, despite that every girl here was dressed like me, worse to be honest. Even my best friend was scantily clothed in tight cranberry-colored shorts that had part of her butt cheeks hanging out, bouncing in time with her perky, perfect boobs barely contained in a black bra. The lace tank she wore was sheer and added to her sex-crazed kitten look she loved to portray.
"I fucking love this song!" Sam yelled over the bass. The ends of her dark hair dyed aqua spun in the air as she twisted her head from side to side. Sam was bold and bright like her choice in hair and wardrobe. She did and said whatever was on her mind, her mouth born without a filter. We often joked that she came out of her mother's womb flipping the bird to the world.
Opposites attract. That was a true statement to describe my friendship with Sam, and until she had transferred to Seaside Prep my Sophomore year, I hadn't known how much I needed someone like her in my life.
"Who doesn't?" I countered with a smile and shook out my long blonde hair. The two glasses of spiked punch already working its way into my system, loosening my muscles. I was feeling great, without a care in the world.
Sam was short for Samantha, but calling her by her given name would earn you a black eye. My best friend had a thing for boy names...she had a thing for boys was more accurate—all boys...and girls, but never the same one in the same week. And her tight athletic little body got her the attention she craved from both sexes. It didn't matter which, they all loved her.
Sam was the life of the party everywhere she went and I was the best friend living in her shadow, content to let her take the spotlight.
"Keg stand!" some jock screamed over the music, bumping his plastic cup against the dude next to him and spilling both of their drinks down their arms. Idiots. But the crowd got rowdy in response.
What was so fun about these parties again? Why had I let Sam talk me into coming out?
Right, because Preston was being an ass.
At the thought of my boyfriend, I lifted the cup to my lips and drained the remaining punch. "I need another," I yelled to Sam, who nodded and weaved her hand through mine, leading me through the crowd toward the kitchen at the back of the beach house, all the while swaying her hips.
