A laugh escapes me, one that’s just a little too loud, a little too raucous. I clap a hand over my mouth as Maxx flashes me a white-toothed smile. It’s big and gorgeous and most definitely still not a treat my cringe-worthy ass needs to be nibbling on.
“OnlyFans?” Parrish echoes, his voice strained and honestly, a bit like a tightrope walker onstage and wobbling. I glance over my shoulder, give him a tight smile and a lift of my brows, and then turn back to the front windshield.
It seems too dangerous to talk to him now, too dangerous to speak to X.
I pretend not to be interested in either of them as X chooses a playlist on his phone and The Script begins to play. The Last Time is his song of choice. Interesting. And not quite what I expected.
By the time we arrive at the party, I’m more than ready to get some space from the two boys.
“I’ll drive you guys back in about two hours,” X says, giving Parrish a look when he scowls. “I know it’s not much time, but I have to be up crazy early.”
“Whatever,” Parrish says, putting his freshly-tatted left hand on the shoulder of Maxx’s seat as he leans forward. “Old man,” he hisses with a laugh, and then he’s sliding out the back door, dispersing into the crowd, and leaving me and Maxx alone.
It is awkward as fuck in there, I’ll tell you that right now.
My gaze moves past the limned outline of Maxx’s profile and toward the house. It’s a five-story monstrosity made out of glass and cement, much like our house but a little flashier, like the person who owns it really has something to prove.
“Bourgeois,” I murmur under my breath and Maxx chuckles again, turning off the engine and then leaning back in his seat, his body bathed in shadows and outlined with the golden glow from the patio lights. We’re parked near an open gate that leads into the backyard, the grass littered with luxury cars. Comparatively, Maxx’s Jeep Gladiator looks like a cheap hunk of junk. Still fancy to me though.
“You have no idea,” he murmurs, leaning forward and crossing his arms on the top of the steering wheel before resting his chin atop them. The song switches over to another track from The Script. I chew on my lower lip which is most definitely not a normal fidget of mine and realize that I’m subconsciously imitating Maxx. God. Damnit. I stop the action immediately and squeeze my hands together in my lap, knowing that I should rightfully bail out this door and never climb in another vehicle with Maxx Wright ever again. “Be careful with them: they start off nice but the deeper you get in Whitehall, the worse things you see.”
Maxx glances my way, and even though I know it’s impossible in the darkness, it feels like I can see the emerald glimmer of his irises. Okay, that’s it. Get the fuck out of the car. I reach for the door handle, but nothing happens. My fingers betray me, resting atop the handle but refusing to press down on it.
“They’re all stereotypical rich assholes, aren’t they?” I ask and Maxx chuckles at me, the sound somehow even more effective than it was during the daylight.
“Maybe not stereotypical,” he muses, like he’s chewing over some old stories, “but rich assholes? Oh yeah. Don’t let them intimidate you.” X sits up and reaches for his own door. His hands, however, do not betray him. I hate you, I think at my hands as Maxx climbs out and glances toward the house, letting out a tired sigh. “Am I gonna be ‘that guy’ tonight?” he muses aloud, looking back toward me with another smile. “Like, an old guy creeping around a high school party?”
I lift both brows and then finally convince my frozen fingers to move, opening the door and climbing out. Maxx comes around the hood to meet me.
“Should I take your silence as a yes?” he asks, but if I were to answer truthfully, I’d probably get myself in trouble.
“Oh yeah, you’re definitely the old creeper,” I say, giving him this … this terrible punch in the shoulder like we’re bros or something? Gross. I sweep past before X gets a good look at my face and knows just how insane I’m acting. I’m sure I’ve got pink cheeks and a crimson chest. That’s where I always blush most, on my boobs.
I shuffle into the backyard in my Pokémon pants and hoodie, staring at the sea of girls in designer body-con dresses and thousand-dollar heels and know instantly that I’ve made a mistake.
Oh yeah, that’s right, we’re not in freaking high school; we’re in Hollywood high school. Everyone here is a goddamn model.
“Great,” I murmur under my breath, dragging a hand over my face.
