Page 21 of Movers and Fakers

Chapter eleven

Angel In Pink

Hayes Rosewood

I push my way through the party and head outside where the pool is. No one is using it, since it’s October. The campus might be in Atlanta, but it’s cold enough at night to make swimming a nonoption. Unless, of course, your drunk friends throw you in. Which happens to some poor sap every other party in the fall. That’s when it pays to have a reputation as a fighter. No one is dumb enough to push me in.

Though no one is in the pool, plenty of people are hovering around it, the blue lights casting an odd glow that makes them look like they’re starring in Twilight. I scan the area and spot Mckinleigh wearing a tight, short dress. She’s talking animatedly to a group of people, waving a bottle of vodka around like a baton.

“Great,” I mutter as I stalk over to them.

Mckinleigh spots me as I get closer, and a smile spreads across her lips.

“Hayesy!” She somehow manages to slur at a high pitch. A true feat. “I’ve been looking everywhere for you.” At least, that’s what I think she says. It’s hard to make out.

“Can we talk for a sec?” I shove my hands in my pockets and tip my head to the side. “Alone.”

Her sloppy grin widens. “Of course. Alone.”

I draw in a fortifying breath, and immediately regret it when I’m hit with the cloying smell of perfume and peach vodka. Mckinleigh throws her arms around me, and I barely resist the urge to gag. I need to be more selective about who I date. Mckinleigh pulls back and plants a wet kiss on my jaw. I cringe. Maybe give up dating all together.

After extricating myself from her oddly strong grip, I gently guide her a few feet away from her friends. Then I turn so I see most of the backyard and keep an eye on the exits. She goes to throw herself at me again, but I stop her.

“We need to talk,” I emphasize.

She pouts and crosses her arms over her red dress. I wipe my hands on my pants, then run a hand through my hair.

“Have you been telling people we’re dating?” I ask her. The sooner I get this over with, the better.

She giggles. “Yes! I’ve been telling them the story of our first date without you. Is that why you’re mad? I tried to look for you first!”

Her every sentence is like stumbling through a forest with a flashlight. I’ve got no idea where it’s headed, and it takes a lot of focus to figure it out.

“But we’re not dating,” I reply in a gentle voice.

Mckinleigh’s forehead wrinkles.

“What do you mean? We went on a date.”

“Yes, one date. That’s all. And that was a while ago.”

“It was thirteen days ago,” she mumbles. Her chin starts to wobble and her eyes go glassy. “I thought we h-had a connection.”

I sigh. “I’m sorry, but we’re not dating. You have to stop telling people, and I don’t know how you got my number, but you shouldn’t text me either.”

Her sadness swings to anger like a pendulum.

“I got your number because you wouldn’t answer my messages! Why don’t you want to date me?”

An uncomfortable sensation coats my skin. I can feel the eyes of everyone around us, and though I’m used to it, I know this is far from the good kind of attention.

“It’s nothing personal—”

“Is there another girl?” she whines, mascara tracking down her cheeks.

My eyes flick around, assessing the situation and thinking of what to say. It’s at this moment that an angel clothed in baby pink steps into the backyard.

“Aurora,” I whisper.