You and Everything After (Falling #2)(6)
The second we open the door, we’re weaving through a crowd of people. We’re at some old apartment complex, right off campus. One of the fraternities took it over for housing. The living room is filled with smoke, which makes everyone look just a little dirtier.
College parties aren’t like they seem in the movies. They’re not even close. There isn’t some band playing in a corner, or some DJ spinning records. It’s just an iPod plugged into a nice set of speakers, playing the same rap album over and over again. The girls here aren’t all wearing major label designer clothes. Most of the guys are wearing hats, and they sport newly minted beards that haven’t been groomed properly—and way too much cologne. It’s just an apartment overcrowded with people, most of whom are gathered around a Goodwill sofa in the living room or the giant table pushed against a wall in the dining area.
“I’ll get us beer,” I say to Paige, doing my best to push through the group of girls who are gathered around the kitchen island. My experience has me waiting for them to say something to me—or spill their drinks on me on purpose—but instead, I slip through unnoticed, their conversation continuing without pause as I move through them.
I grab two cups and a marker, writing PAIGE on one. I’m about to write my name on the other when my hand suddenly writes out the name ADRIANNA. I put the pen cap back on and can’t help but smile at the idea of being a mystery woman, just for the night. Once I’ve filled each cup from the keg, I slip back through the crowd to find my sister.
“Adrianna?” she asks, taking a sip from her cup and pointing to my persona scribed on mine.
“Yep, tonight I’m Adrianna,” I say, taking a big gulp, and challenging her stare with my mouth pressed in a hard line—just like Adrianna would.
“You’re weird,” she says with a slight eye-roll, turning her focus to the rowdy crowd of guys piled on the couch in the living room. Nudging me to follow, she leads us closer.
“Oh shit!” one of them yells, leaning to the side with his controller in hand, as if his body movement actually had an effect on what his character was doing on the screen. They’re playing Battle Wound. I recognize it immediately.
“Dude, you suck at this, Cash! Give your turn to Preeter; he’ll save your ass,” one of the other guys playing yells.
“Fuck no, man! I can save this shit. Just move out of my way…” Cash starts, and then we all watch as his guy on the screen flies through space and gets absolutely ass-hammered with alien bullets.
“Shit,” his friend says, tossing his controller on the table. “I’m out. Cash, you suck!”
“I don’t suck. I just need the right partner,” he fires back at his friend, who just flips him off while he leaves to get another beer.
I don’t even hesitate, grabbing the open controller off the coffee table and flopping myself onto the old couch cushions between two very large guys. “You’re right, Cash,” I say, giving him a wink. “Your partner bailed on your ass. Let’s go again. I got your back. Who wants a piece?” I ask, instantly realizing the sexual innuendo I just threw out there. A few of the guys seem to have picked up on it, and they chuckle. Back home, that would have mortified me. But I let it roll off of me now, especially tonight, because I’m Adrianna!
“You’re on, princess,” one of the bigger guys next to me says, pulling his body forward and leaning his elbows on his knees. Paige has found a spot near me along the sofa arm, and she’s already surveying the room for some guy to hit on. There are a few here that are typical Paige targets—I’m pretty sure the two I’m stuffed between are football players.
“Okay, watch my tail,” Cash says, biting his lip and leaning, just like he did last time; we run our guys through the dark corridor of the space ship. He has no idea what he’s doing, and I would venture to guess he hasn’t played this game before. That’s okay, though, because I’m about to make him look like a bona fide videogame nerd. I’ve played every version of Battle Wound at least a hundred times, and I know all of the surprises. I’m shooting milliseconds before the bad guys attack, leaving in our wake a digital hallway full of carnage as our soldiers run through the various scenes on the screen.
“Cover me!” I yell, surprising Cash, who almost fumbles his controller out of his hands.
“Oh, uh…okay,” he says, looking from me to the screen, not really sure what to do. It doesn’t matter. I know where the explosives are hidden in this level. It’s one of those secret weapons only people who read Gamer magazine know about—one of those tiny tips printed in the margins of a recent issue. My fingers work the controller, pushing my guy into a roll with his weapons drawn. I barely miss the bullets flying at me—Cash is clearly no use as a backup—and fire away at the barrels stashed along one of the walls.
“You’re so dead, peaches,” big guy on my right says. Peaches, I like peaches. Not sure I like the nickname, and I’m pretty sure I’m going to love kicking this guy’s ass. But I don’t really have anything against the fruit. Just three more seconds. Two. One.
The explosion is the best part. They really upped the graphics on version eight, and the way it melts everyone when the pod explodes is cool as hell. I know Cash is going to be pissed, because he thinks we’re dead, too. But he’ll know soon enough.