“What’s the count?”
Carter passes me a fresh beer after we down our shots. He’s one of my closest friends and my teammate. We met in middle school when we tackled each other during football tryouts and from the first hit we’d stuck together.
I wipe the back of my hand against my mouth and swallow a sip of beer to chase the whiskey. “The count?”
My head swims a little. Everyone keeps handing me shots. I’m not trying to get fucked up tonight. My parents are out of town and I have Lancelot to take care of. I don’t trust that anyone here would remember to feed him or take him out away from the trails where coyotes and cougars frequent.
The plump old pug dog waddles down the steps from the second floor, greeted by coos from the girls. He flops onto his back in front of one group and is rewarded with belly rubs. A fond smile tugs the corner of my mouth up as he stretches his back legs under the attention.
“How many girls have gotten you off tonight?” Carter asks.
I forgot he was standing there.
Carter pushes his black wavy hair back and shoots me a goofy smile. He’s an easy-going guy. It’s what I like best about him; he’s always down to have some fun.
My smile doesn’t stretch as wide as his.
I can’t enjoy it like I used to.
“Ah, you know.” I wave him off. “Can’t kiss and tell.”
“Bullshit, man. Last week you told me all about how Heather rode your dick in your Jeep at Peak Point.”
I bite the inside of my cheek. He’s not wrong, that did happen.
Carter laughs and cuffs my shoulder. “Just tell me the count tomorrow. I want to know if I won the betting pool with the other guys.”
I snort, but I’m going through the motions.
Shaking my head, I say, “You guys are a bunch of jackasses. Go enjoy the party, you dick.”
I leave Carter and hold back a sigh.
It’s my senior year, I’m the varsity quarterback, and the whole school showed up tonight for my eighteenth birthday. People cheer my name when I walk by. Girls have been giving me the look all night, whispering promises in my ear with a gleam in their eyes as they palm my junk not-so-subtly.
I can have my pick of any hot piece of ass I want. Hell, all I need to do is shoot them a crooked grin and snap my fingers. I’m treated like a god amongst these people.
I’m living the high life right now.
And it all feels hollow.
One girl catches my eye across the room and mimes a blowjob with her tongue in her cheek. My dick should jump at the prospect of a bathroom quickie.
Instead of taking her up on sucking my cock, I hide a grimace in my beer as I down the rest of it and pretend I didn’t notice her.
“Refill?”
Devlin tips his red plastic cup at me and quirks his lips into a smirk. Dark fringe hangs over his eyes. Everyone calls me the golden Saint but Devlin’s known as the dark devil of Silver Lake High.
“Can’t have empties on your birthday.” Devlin steers me towards the keg. He nods to every girl along the way, doling out winks and blowing kisses. He’s a huge flirt. Devlin gestures with his cup and points out a hot chick dancing with her ass pushed out. “If you don’t come out of tonight hooking up with at least three of these girls at once, you’ve done your birthday wrong.”
I snort and allow him to lead me to my next beer.
Devlin is a year younger than me and a junior at Silver Lake High. Our moms are sisters. He’s been a built-in friend since we were in diapers. He’s always around because his parents travel so much and the only company he has at his own house across the lake are his collection of cars.
Despite the slight age difference, he’s got a couple inches of height on me. But I win with my muscular build.
He’s leaner, all wiry limbs that grant him a lethal speed on the soccer field. I almost wish I’d tried harder to convince him to try out for football, even though the new guy is speedy as fuck. Devlin has always had a natural talent for whatever he picks up. Not that he gives that much of a shit about sports. Or anything, other than his precious cars, as far as I can tell.
Devlin lives up to his devil-may-care reputation. He only plays because his best friend is the team captain.
“Lucas!”
A chorus of people celebrate as we reach the keg. Someone shoves a fresh beer in my hands and Marissa drapes herself against my side. A hollow despair stabs me in the chest.
Marissa Hill is a cute little thing with pouty lips and a tight ass. I should know, I’ve been balls deep in it. She’s been gunning for the head cheerleader spot since freshman year. Now that she has it, she’s got it in her head that she and I will rule the school as our royal court.
I’ve been avoiding my on-again-off-again girl most of the night. I do a quick scan of the people nearby, hoping for some excuse to slip away from her.
She presses her tits against my bicep and bats thick fake eyelashes up at me. Her brown hair is swept into a high ponytail with one of her oversized evergreen and white SLHS cheer squad bows.
“Where have you been all night, baby?” Marissa walks her manicured nails along my forearm. She pitches her voice low and seductive. “I’ve been trying to get you all to myself. I want to give you a special birthday present.”
Marissa is a Coyote Girl.
It’s what we call the groupie chicks that hang around the football players.
She was the first girl I kissed and the first I slept with. Ever since then, she’s been climbing into my bed and hanging off my arm like I belong to her.
“It’s my birthday. Everyone wants a piece of me tonight.” I bark out a laugh and slam my cup against one of my teammates’ when he toasts to me. “I’m just spreading the love.”
Marissa’s glossy pink lips twist. “You shouldn’t ignore me.”
“Riss.” Defense faltering, I tuck her against my side. I’m keeping an eye out for a way out of this conversation. “We agreed to a break last month. It was your idea.”
“That was before.” Marissa hitches her shoulder. “I miss you.”
My gaze travels down her body from her caramel-colored eyes to her tight white crop sweater that reveals her flat tan stomach. There’s no denying she’s sexy as hell. But no matter how many nostalgic memories I have of the first girl I thought I loved, I can’t dredge up any desire for her now.
“Bishop! Get over here!” Devlin shouts at his best friend.
It’s a weak distraction, but I turn my attention to Bishop instead of answering Marissa. She complains under her breath and rubs against me like a fucking cat in heat.
My jaw clenches in exasperation. Jesus.
Bishop leaves the group at the kitchen table and heads our way.
He is another junior, but he’s allowed to hang out because he’s Devlin’s friend. Bishop is also the principal’s son and has a mischievous streak a mile wide, so he’s handy to have around in our group. He sidles up, hands stuffed in the pockets of his varsity soccer captain zip up.
Bishop surveys the handful of us huddled around the keg and narrows his eyes.
“No, no, no.” He holds up his palms. “This just won’t do. This is Lucas Saint’s birthday.” Bishop flashes us a grin and points to me. “There needs to be about eight hundred percent more shots going on. Especially for you, Saint.”