Page 42 of Redline
I’m just being thorough. Knowing your enemy is the first rule of the track, and Dominic Valerio is an enemy with a very loud, very distracting mouth. I click my tongue, irritated that he’s managed to occupy even a single percent of my brain capacity again.
The quiet lasts exactly three seconds.
Then, the first set of headlights crests the drive. I don’t even have to look to know the floodgates have opened. I just roll my eyes, a long, exhausted exhale escaping me.
"Of course," I mutter.
More headlights. Then a stream of them, rolling in like someone opened a cage. Music hits first—a deep, aggressive bass that vibrates through the soles of my feet. Colored lights flicker to life around the main house, washing the pool in electric blues and purples. People spill out of cars—half of them probably groupies or students from the university—already loud with anticipation.
I stare for a beat, then scoff, heading for my place of residence. Subtlety has never been a Valerio trait, and apparently, while the team is heading off to start a season, Dominic is staying behind to burn the house down.
I retreat into the pool house and shut the door with a satisfyingsmack. I tell myself I have an assignment due by midnight tomorrow. I tell myself I am an adult with priorities who can tune out the predictable hedonism of a party.
I last a few hours, and it is a miserable, upward climb.
The first hour is a battle against the sensory bleed. The bass doesn't just stay loud; it grows teeth, vibrating through the legs of my chair until my very bones feel out of alignment. Every time a cheer erupts from the patio, my pencil skids across the page. Then, the power flickers—a momentary blink as someonepresumably plugged in a light rig that the pool house circuit wasn't built for. My lamp dies, leaves me in the dark for a few seconds of pure, mounting fury, and then hums back to life with a high-pitched whine that sets my teeth further on edge.
Then comes the invasion.
My nerves are already frayed to a single thread when the door handle rattles. I look up, heart jumping, just in time to see a very flushed, very eager couple stumble into the pool house. They don't even look at me; they’re too busy trying to occupy the same skin, heading straight for the sofa like they own the place.
"Out!" I snap, standing so fast my chair screeches against the floor.
The guy blinks at me, his shirt half-unbuttoned, looking genuinely offended that I’m inhabiting my own home. "Whoa, chill. We just needed a room."
"Get a car. Get a bush. Get out of here," I snarl, practically vibrating with rage.
I herd them out, slamming the door and sliding the deadbolt home. I mentally scold myself for forgetting to lock it like Dad reminded me. My hands are shaking as I sit back down, the room now feeling fragile and violated.
The third strike is the spill.
I’m forty minutes into rereading the same sentence for the tenth time when the vibration from a particularly heavy bass drop rattles the shelf above. A small jar of paperclips tips over, showering my open notebook in a metallic hail.
I don't scream. I don't move. I just pin my attention to the silver mess scattered across the analysis of my work.
Finishing the task of picking clips off the page one by one, my head begins to throb in time with the kick-drum. Then, a sudden thump hits the glass.
The jump isn't subtle—the pencil snaps right in my grip.
Spinning toward the door, heart punching hard against my ribs, I expect another interloper or a shattered pane. But it’s just a beach ball. It bounces weakly off the glass and settles against the siding, a bright, plastic mockery of my attempt at peace.
I stare at it for a long, vibrating beat.
I close my notebook very,verycarefully.
"That’s it," I mutter, my voice dangerous. "He’s dead."
I step outside and am immediately swallowed by the crowd. The air smells like expensive cologne, spilled gin, and the frantic energy of a pre-season blowout. I weave through the bodies, holding myself rigid, scanning for a familiar, brooding silhouette.
No Dominic.
Near the edge of the pool, I spot a cluster of girls draped in designer linen, their laughter sharp enough to cut glass. I decide to approach them.
"Where’s Dominic?" I ask, my voice projecting over a remix of a song I already hate.
The conversation stops mid-beat. Four pairs of eyes rake over me, starting at my scuffed sneakers and ending at my hair—uneven, messy, and giving away exactly how long I’d been pulling at it. They don't see a threat; they see a stain in the aesthetic. One girl shifts, subtly blocking my path toward the house with a polished shoulder, her gaze hardening with a territorial "don't even try it" look. She doesn't answer; she just turns back to her friends, dismissing me before I can even blink.
I scoff, a short, sharp sound of pure disbelief. I don’t have time to explain to a group of females in over-priced clothes that I’m the last person on earth who wants to "try it" with their host.
