Frenemies(9)

We trudged up the front stairs and squared our shoulders. Or I did, anyway. I’d been to so many parties here, one more shouldn’t matter much one way or the other. Deep inside, however, I was thinking of the last time I’d been here, and my subsequent vow never to return.

“No one prepared me,” drawled a voice from above us, rich with sarcastic glee. “Gus Curtis? At my house? They said it wasn’t possible!”

I looked up and there was Henry Farland himself, lounging in the open doorway before us.

There was something mesmerizing about him, with his bright blue eyes, honey-blond hair, and a smirk that could draw blood. He looked dressed to kill. In his case, probably literally.

“Henry,” Amy Lee bit out in an abrupt tone. “A pleasure, thanks for the invite, beautiful home.”

Without bothering to wait for a response, or express her solidarity with me by—I don’t know—punching Henry in the stomach, Amy Lee barreled past him. Headed, I assumed, for the bar. Amy Lee had been tired of Henry when it was Georgia who wanted to rant about him all the time. This probably felt like déjà vu to her. Oscar shot me an apologetic look and hurried after her, just doing that manly head-bob thing with Henry as he passed.

“Great to see you,” Georgia murmured insincerely, sweeping inside. She, too, had better things to do than wait for Henry’s reply. After all, she’d spent years waiting for Henry.

Not that Henry cared. His eyes were on me, glowing. With malice, obviously. Later, I would have to check for scorch marks.

“I’m not sure I deserved all that hostility,” Henry said mildly. “But how are you, Gus?”

He glided forward to kiss me on the cheek, the treacherous snake, and I smiled as if delighted beyond words and did the same, because I was nothing if not fake in awkward social situations.

“You look great,” I told him, trying not to think about the fact I was touching him. Anyway, it was true, he really did look great. But then, you would expect Lucifer to be hot. I felt a flash of anger and something like guilt, and ruthlessly repressed it.

Henry leaned back and just looked at me for a moment, as if waiting for me to say something. As if daring me to say something.

“Stop looking at me,” I ordered.

Henry didn’t take orders very well.

“This is supposed to be a party,” he said. “Do you think you can keep things friendly?” He flashed me as patronizing a smile as I’d ever seen. “Didn’t I hear something about an incident at Gretchen’s party the other night? Another little piece of your heart, I believe?”

“You’re scum,” I said through a fake smile.

“It’s good to see you too, Gus,” Henry continued, his eyes especially bright, which always boded ill. “The last time you showed up at my house—”

“I bet you’ve been waiting at the door all night, hoping you could throw that in my face,” I said. It felt as if he’d sucker punched me. Which I assumed was his goal.

“Don’t worry.” His eyes felt electric when they swept over me. “I haven’t told anyone.”

The yet was implied.

I didn’t wait for more, I just pushed past him and into the house. I had to remind myself to unclench my jaw before something shattered or Amy Lee diagnosed me with Henry-caused lockjaw.

I risked a glance back anyway and, sure enough, Henry was watching me with that little crook of his mouth that managed somehow to be hotter than a smile. Not that I wanted to notice his hotness, however omnipresent it seemed. I was glad he found himself so funny. Somebody had to.

I moved carefully through the crowd, which was divided into three different sorts of people:

There were the Halloween diehards, who painted themselves blue or sported elaborate costumes involving much thought and papier-maché. These people could often be seen sneering at each other, or saying things like, “Um, I think you’ll find that season four Buffy had the curly hair, which means your season three leather with that hair is totally inappropriate.”

Then there were the cutely costumed. These were almost all girls—the long-legged, bored-eyed girls Henry collected, for example. They had names like Eleanor or Maggie, and they liked to tell incomprehensible stories about their prep schools, their East Coast elite colleges, and their summers on the Cape or in Maine. And for Halloween, they liked to dress in pretty or slutty outfits that accentuated their bodies, so they could flaunt themselves in front of anyone who cared to look.

The other group—the majority I was pleased to be a part of, as I had no desire to attract any further attention to myself—had foregone costumes altogether.

I found my friends huddled in a corner about three feet from the bar. Georgia handed me a martini without comment. I made a face and handed it back to her.

“Please,” I scoffed. “After my last outing? I’ll have water, thanks.”

Georgia rolled her eyes, and poured my drink into hers without a word. Amy Lee waved her hand at the room and sighed.

“This is lame,” she said. “I don’t know anyone. And if I were almost thirty years old and wearing Quidditch robes, I don’t think I’d laugh way too loud like those guys by the window.”

“I hate Henry,” I said, without sparing a glance for the fully dressed and decorated Gryffindor Quidditch team, complete with broomsticks and goggles. “It’s like someone showed him Pretty in Pink at an impressionable age and he’s been channeling James Spader ever since.”