Nothing But Trouble (Malibu University Series)(24)

The only reason I’m here is because of what I witnessed at the end of the water polo game. One minute I’m laughing with the girls, having a great time, and the next I’m fighting tears. Because the look on his face, of utter devastation when he saw his brother standing at the side of the pool surrounded by people mocking him…that look split my chest wide open and ripped my heart out.

I’m worried. I know I shouldn’t be––he’s not mine to worry over. We barely know each other––and yet I can’t seem to stop.

Walking down the narrow street, we pass house after house crammed together side by side and hidden behind security walls. Each one bigger than the next.

We finally reach our destination and it’s not a house. It’s a freaking mansion––on the beach. Light pours out of every floor-to-ceiling window overlooking the road. People smoking loiter on the front steps. A group I recognize mill about the small patch of front lawn.

“Stop gawking. It’s only a house,” Zoe commands. Easy for her to say. She’s been around this all her life.

Blake pats my arm and smiles softly. “You’ll get used to it.”

“Doubt it,” I tell her as we file into the jam-packed foyer after Zoe.

“W-what’s that smell?” Dora demands to know, her face twisting in a disgusted grimace.

Zoe’s feet halt in their tracks. She glances over her shoulder with an expression of utter shock. “You can’t be serious?” Her face changes from dubious to confused. “Can you?”

“It s-stinks. I think someone got sprayed by a s-skunk. What’s there to joke about?”

“Were you raised in a time capsule from the eighteen hundreds? It’s pot, Ramos. You’ve never smelled pot before?”

Dora’s eyes practically bug out of her head and she swiftly pivots on her borrowed heels and turns to leave. Not fast enough, however. Catching her by the shoulders, Zoe stops her before she can make it down the front steps.

“My father’s a DEA agent!” Dora whisper-hisses. “I’ll get high off the secondhand fumes. We all will!”

“With any luck,” is Blake’s quick comeback and Zoe and I snicker.

On level ground Zoe has a good four to five inches on Dora. Tonight she’s wearing four-inch Louboutin booties with the spikes on them so the disparity is hilarious. Ducking down so they’re face-to-face, Zoe calmly says, “First, let’s scale down on the melodrama. Second, you’re not leaving, Red. You’re going to board that courage train and ride it all the way inside the party.”

Dora glares. There’s a moment of silence, in which Zoe feels compelled to add, “Do you want to be the 40-Year-Old Virgin? Is that on your vision board?”

Without another word, a sullen Dora drags her feet back into the house, a hand covering her mouth and nose.

“Outta the way, crutches coming through,” Blake yells as she splits the crowd. Her long braids swaying down her slender back. She’s wearing a body-hugging white t-shit dress that hits mid thigh and tan high-heeled sandals. The stark white against her brown skin makes her look like a living statue. Too good to be real. Necks snap as we follow her across the living room. She’s got so much natural, unintentional sex appeal that it’s impossible not to stare at her.

There’s so much to take in, my eyes don’t know where to look first. You could park a small airplane in this place it’s so big. This is definitely a party house. Wide-open spaces. Furniture sparse and large to accommodate the size of the guys who live here. Zoe said it belongs to one of the water polo players. Whoever he is he definitely wants for nothing.

A series of glass panels span the entire back of the house that overlooks the patio. All of them wide open. The crowd spills out around a pool lit up in orange, one half of Malibu U school colors, and down to the beach.

I’m gaping. I fully admit it. I’ve seen ridiculous displays of wealth. Living so close to New York City, it’s hard not to. This, however, is silly rich.

Lil Tjay’s Goat pumps loudly out of the state-of-the-art sound system. Bodies move, swaying to the beat. Arms wave in the air. Solo cups filled with alcohol slosh over the sides, spilling down shirts. Girls laughing. Guys shouting at an enormous wall-mounted television where a basketball game plays.

“This party is lit! Let’s head out back,” Zoe yells over the music. I can barely hear her. She motions us in the direction of the patio and ventures deeper into the crowd.

We find some open space the size of a postage stamp and park ourselves there. Dora fidgets with the short skirt Zoe made her wear, pulling on the hem, while her eyes dart around in wonder, not sure what to take in first. I’m almost as awestruck. Though I do a better job of concealing it.

“Incoming––mythical creature,” Zoe mutters through a fixed smile, the first time I’ve ever seen her look even remotely uncomfortable.

“Mythical creature?” I repeat with a curious glance at Blake.

“It’s a well-known fact that Brock Peterman is a virgin,” she explains, her lips tilting up on one side. “Every girl on campus is gunning for him.”

A guy approaches, a head taller than just about everyone else and therefore easy to spot. He’s wearing a faded blue Sharks Water Polo t-shirt, a deep tan, shorts, and flip-flops.

I’m starting to sense a trend here. Do any of these guys ever wear anything else? Is it a rich boy thing, or California thing?