She shivers from my touch and presses closer, rolling her hips and driving my body absolutely mad. She repeats the movement over and over again, until finally, I damn near lose my mind.

Gripping her waist, I spin her around to face me. “I thought you didn’t know how to dance?”

“No, I said I haven’t been to a club before. I’m actually a very good dancer. So good I made the cheerleading team.”

“You’re on the cheerleading squad?”

“No, I said I made it! I didn’t want to be on it, though, so I didn’t join. It reminds me too much of home where I’m…” She bites down on her lip to stop herself, but the alcohol must get the best of her because she ends up sputtering out, “of home where I’m always controlled.” Her gaze drifts to the ceiling as if she’s pondering something deeply.

My soul aches for her, but I don’t say anything, knowing it’ll only spook her more. I wait for her to bail out and leave me here, standing alone, like she normally does when she starts talking about her past, but the alcohol must overcome her fear, because she starts dancing again.

This time she goes wild, completely untamed. She flips her hair around and spins, even though there’s barely any room to move. The throng seems to part for her, some watching her in awe, amazed by her flawless movements and striking perfection.

After about five minutes of me standing there, gaping at her, she seizes hold of my hands. “Come on, Ryler. Dance with me.”

I chuckle lowly then join her, knowing that somehow I’m going to end up paying for it. But fuck it. If I’m going down, then I guess I might as well go down in flames.

I wrap my fingers around her arms and yank her closer until there isn’t an ounce of space left between our sweaty bodies. Then I move with her, grinding against her, touching her body, and kissing her neck with every opportunity I get. She plays with the hair on the nape of my neck and nibbles on my earlobe a few times, eliciting a few groans that get swept away in the music.

If I had my way, we’d go on forever, but forever only lasts about an hour. Then we find a table to take a break, catch our breath, and drink more. Violet brings a double shot for each of us, then she and Luke wander back to the bar and end up chatting with their friends, Seth and Greyson, while waiting for more drinks.

Emery crosses her legs and fans her hand in front of her face. Her cheeks are flushed, her skin is damp with sweat, and her eyes are sparkling with excitement. “I haven’t had this much fun since the last time we hung out.”

“The last time we hung out?” My hands move as I cock my head to the side in confusion. “We hang out almost every day.”

“I mean the last time we hung out when you were just you and I was just me.” She spins the empty shot glass between her hands. “Before all the crazy stuff happened and life sucked again.” She frowns as glass tips over, and she clumsily stands it upright again.

“Emery…” I’m uncertain what to sign to her. “You know we can still be friends, right?”

“No, we can’t.” She offers me the most emotionless smile I’ve ever seen. As beautiful as she is, I’ll admit the emptiness behind the smile is sort of creepy. “Besides, you wouldn’t want to be my friend if you really knew who I am.” Her speech is starting to slur, which more than likely means she’s not thinking before speaking. I raise my hands to cut her off, but she keeps mumbling. “I’m kind of crazy. Did you know that? Did my father tell you?”

I shake my head and scratch my neck uncomfortably. “He doesn’t really talk about you that much.”

“That’s a really good thing.” She props her elbow onto the table and rests her chin on her hand. “You’d hate me if he did.”

“I could never hate you.” Which is the truth. Wherever Emery comes from, I truly believe she’s a good person, no matter what her father says about her.

“Yes, you could, if you knew who I am.”

“Well, maybe you’d hate me if you knew who I am.” Fuck, maybe I’ve had too much to drink as well.

She shakes her head lethargically. “No way. I could never hate anyone after all the things I’ve done. I’d be a hypocrite.”

“Maybe I’ve done bad things, too,” I sign. “Everyone probably has when you really think about it.”

Her head slumps deeper into her hand. “What bad things have you done, Ryler? Do you… do you have blood on your hands?”

I pause, wondering if she somehow knows about my past. Know about Ben. How could she, though? “Do you?”

“I don’t know…” She yawns, her eyelids drooping. “You’re really pretty.”

I resist a laugh. “No, you’re really pretty.”

She wobbly shakes her head, sits up straight, and extends her arm across the table toward my hand, but ends up missing and tips over the glass again. This time she leaves it alone. “No, I’m being serious. You’re like the prettiest guy I’ve ever seen.” Her mouth droops to a frown. “No, I shouldn’t say pretty. Evan’s pretty. You’re… like a gorgeous piece of art… with all your tattoos…” She finds my forearms and traces the lines of a skull tattoo. “And your piercings.” She reaches for my brow to touch the metal loop in it, but misses and ends up poking me in the eye. “Sorry… Your eyes are so pretty, too. It looks like you’re wearing eyeliner.”