Bright Before Sunrise(52)

“Careful, angel.”

I yank myself out of his grip and away from him. Carly’s gone to join the group. Digg’s scooting closer on the couch. “What was that about?” he asks.

I pick up my soda and raise the can to my mouth, ready to avoid answering and hide my embarrassment behind a sip. Before my lips close around the rim, a coconut smell makes me freeze. I hold out the can like it’s radioactive. “This isn’t just Pepsi.”

Digg shrugs and taps his can against mine. “I splashed a little fun in it. Drink up.”

I stand. “I told you I didn’t want to drink.”

“Ahhh, c’mon, I even used the flavored rum—it’ll taste like candy.” He reaches for my wrist, but I take another step back.

“I told you I didn’t want to drink.” My voice is louder, but my words are the same. I don’t need any additional arguments.

“Man, you’re wound tight. That’s ’zactly why you need to be a good girl and drink up. You’ll have a much better time if you relax.” He chugs.

My breath is coming in quick gasps. “Listen, *, what part of no don’t you understand?”

I could just let this go. Should probably just leave.

Flight.

I’m flight, and everything in me wants to run away from this. But I can’t. It’s the condescension. It’s the disrespect. It’s the assumption that his agenda of getting me drunk is more important than my decision not to drink.

I tip the can, angling it over him. It takes Digg a second or two to react, and then another second for the reaction to move from wide eyes and a gaping mouth to grabbing the can from my hand. It isn’t close to empty, but there’s a satisfyingly sized wet spot on the crotch of his shorts.

“You’re dead,” he snarls, standing up and seizing my arm.





29

Jonah

11:47 P.M.


A QUARTER TO, I’M GOING TO KILL HIM


When Felix strolls by, I’m sitting on the trunk of my car trying to decide if I need to say good-bye to Jeff, or if it’s better for everyone if I just leave.

“That Cross Pointe girl gets around,” he says with a grin. He’s carrying a lighter and something in a brown bag, en route to do who-gives-a-crap to the mailbox.

“Brighton? What do you mean?” I demand, already standing up. My stomach sours. Something about his smile makes me want to punch it off his face.

“She’s in the basement with Digg.” Felix waggles his eyebrows.

I’m tearing up the walk, cursing her for having no sense of self-preservation. Digg? Really? No girl who’s interested in ending the night clothed hangs out with him. I get that she doesn’t know his I-get-it-on-with-anything-with-boobs history, but how could she not see that he’s skeezy? How could she possibly be interested in him?

Jeff and Maya are kissing in the front hall. They break apart as I throw the door open.

Maya asks, “How’d it go with Carly?”

I ignore her and round on Jeff. “Your brother?” I snarl. “You left Brighton alone with your brother? Are you insane?”

“She’s fine. They’re just sitting—”

I’m already halfway down the basement stairs, my feet only touching every third, fourth step. I’m sweating.

I hear his voice first. He’s yelling. “You did not just do that!”

Digg’s standing in front of the couch, a tipped-over beer at his feet, a soda can in one hand, the other clenched around Brighton’s wrist.

“Let go of her!” I can already see the scene playing out in my head, charging across the room, shoving him back onto the couch. Punching him until that smirk becomes a smear of red.

He releases her wrist so suddenly she nearly falls. She’s all frightened eyes and pale skin, limping toward me on her bandaged toes. And my hands are up, out, reaching for her, though I don’t have a single damn clue what I’m going to do when she’s close enough to touch.

“Hey!” calls Digg. When Bright turns, he flings the soda can—the liquid spilling as it spins toward her. Instinct makes me snag it out of the air like a line drive, then throw it back at him, pegging him in the chest. The splash creates another stain to match the one on his crotch. I wipe my wet hand on my shorts.

Digg’s yelling an impressive string of curses, but there’s too much blood rushing in my ears. I miss the first part and hear only, “—from Cross Pointe dumped her soda on me.”

Brighton’s voice is quiet, but the crowd hushes to hear it. “Only because that Hamilton scumbag spiked my drink.”

“What?” I’m coiling to lunge at him. My lips pull back in a snarl that feels feral, while my muscles tense from my fists to my shoulders.

“Don’t.” Her small green fingernails tug on my sleeve. “I want to go. Now.”

“Good,” jeers Digg. “Go. Get the hell out of my house. Prentiss, living in Cross Pointe is making you a pansy.”

I don’t respond to Digg. Don’t acknowledge the group of spectators who have abandoned the Ping-Pong table and video games. I nod at Brighton, putting her in front of me as we retrace my steps back toward the front door. I want to smash my foot through each stair rung or put my fist through the wall. I slam open the door at the top of the stairs, nearly hitting someone on the other side, but I don’t stop to apologize. If I stop, I’ll go back downstairs and punch Digg.