Page 8 of Flock
He takes my hand and we walk through the crowd on the porch, stopping short of the front door. “Who’s this?” The voice comes from the porch swing, out of the mouth of a guy draped around a girl who looks at me with the same interest. I can practically see the “we don’t do well with strangers around here” in both their expressions.
“She just started at the plant. Cecelia, this is James, and that’s his girl, Heather,” he jerks his chin to the others crowded by the porch fence who scrutinize me while sipping their beers, “Russell, Peter, Jeremy, Tyler.” They all give me a lift of their chins while a strange sensation rolls up my spine, and it’s not a bad one. If anything, it feels a little like déjà vu. Tyler holds my gaze the longest after our introduction, and I can’t help but notice the wing tip beneath the cuff of his T-shirt when he lifts his beer. Our eyes stay locked until I’m led into the house.
Despite my hesitation in coming, I feel more comfortable here than I have after one night at my father’s, and I use that to fuel each step. Once inside, I scan the spotless house. The walls look freshly painted, and the furniture new. The living room is empty of people, save the loveseat where a couple talks animatedly—the guy giving me a once-over before giving Sean a nod while he guides me through a sliding glass door. It’s when I step through onto the patio that my hackles rise, and the hairs on the back of my neck stand at attention. I feel like I’m on display, which isn’t far from the truth because the back yard is bustling with people, smoke billowing from a nearby barbecue, and out of the mouths of a few next to the fence bordering the yard. To our left is a long patio table full of people taking shots and playing cards. The gathering seems to be just a few heads shy of a full-on party. Sean leads me to the middle of the yard where rows of coolers sit fully stocked with beer next to a picnic bench.
“Nice place.”
“Thanks, we’re working on it. Beer?”
“I ...” I pause, intent on trying to fit in despite standing out like an inexperienced sore thumb. The last time I drank, it didn’t end well. “Yeah, I’ll have one.”
He twists the lid on a hard cider. “I think this is chick beer.” I take a sip and then another, liking the taste. Sean’s lips lift in a sultry smile. “Like that?”
“It’s pretty good.”
“I guess I should’ve asked how old you are.”
“Old enough to vote, but not to legally drink.”
He hangs his head.
“Not that young. I’ll be nineteen in a few weeks.”
“Shit,” he eyes me. “I thought I was going to be trouble for you.”
I double tap my brows. “I’m tricky like that.”
“You are trouble,” he says, his eyes searching mine. “I can tell.”
“I’m harmless.”
“No, you’re more,” he shakes his head slowly. “A lot more.” He takes a beer from the cooler and pops off the top, his eyes never leaving me. “Hungry?”
“Starving,” I say honestly, my stomach rumbling from the smell permeating the yard.
“Should be ready soon.” One of the guys playing cards on the porch waves him over, his curious eyes trained on me. “You okay here for a second?”
“I’m good.”
“Be right back.” He stalks off, and I zero in on his ass. A feminine laugh sounds behind me and I turn as she approaches. She’s beautiful, with long blonde hair, baby blue eyes, and, in my opinion, the perfect physique. Petite with soft curves. My last growth spurt puts me hovering above her at 5’9. I got my blue eyes and reddish-brown hair from my father, and work with the slightly disproportionate build I inherited from my mom. What I lack in my borderline B-cup breasts I make up with a double-D butt.
The girl grins. “Can’t blame you, you could bounce a quarter off that ass.”
“Was I that obvious?”
“A little,” she plucks a cider from the cooler, twists off the top and takes a sip. “But we all stare at that ass. I’m Layla.”
“Cecelia.”
“So, how do you know Sean?”
“I don’t. I met him at orientation today.”
She wrinkles her nose. “You work at the plant?”
“First shift starts tomorrow. Just moved here yesterday.”
“I only worked there for a few years after high school, and I couldn’t stand it. Most everyone here works there or has at some point. The owner is an asshole, though. He lives in a castle somewhere around here.” She turns to me. “I get the townies having that job, but why would you take a job there?”
