“I thought you didn’t need a bodyguard.”

“Don’t tell me you’re dumb enough to believe everything I say.”

We glare at each other—we glare and we don’t look away. We’re both panting, our tempers high, our minds fogged with alcohol and adrenaline. The tension thickens between us until I almost can’t breathe through it. But I know I’m breathing, because I smell the musk of soap embedded in his skin.

I lean closer, until I see the flecks of gold sprinkled through the navy in his eyes. His lashes are longer and spikier than I realized, and if I didn’t know him, I’d accuse him of wearing falsies.

He’s so beautiful right now it hurts to look at him.

His lips part, drawing my gaze—holding it captive. They are full and soft and I wonder how they’ll taste.

Taste?

What the hell is wrong with me?

“Come on, princess.” Gavin stands, takes my hand and pulls me to my feet. “It’s your lucky day. I’m going to be your special friend.” He drags me downstairs to the dance floor, and despite the frantic pulse of music, he wraps me in his arms and moves slowly, purposely.

“I’m not sleeping with you,” I tell him.

“Good to know. Now listen up, buttercup.”

Ugh. “Before you turn on the charm to change my mind, you should know the answer will forever be no. You’re not my type.”

“You don’t like perfection? That’s okay. I don’t like girls with bad taste. Now zip your lips. I’m not here to throw a party in your pants.”

Oh. I peer up at him, my brow furrowed. “How are you going to be my special friend then?”

“By giving you a bit of advice.”

Advice. Gross. “I’d rather let you throw that party.”

“Too bad. My boy, Frosty, he’s stubborn.”

I snort. “That’s not exactly a news flash.”

But Gavin isn’t done. “You’re trying to squeeze good milk out of a rotten cow. I see that. I get it. But he’s never going to drop Kat. Just ain’t gonna happen. And if you try to win him away from her, you’re going to end up hurt.”

My mouth goes dry. “I’m not interested in him that way.”

“You sure about that? You looked like you wanted to eat his face. Granted, he looked like he wanted to eat your face, too, but even if you managed to get him into bed with you, you wouldn’t be able to keep him there.”

A lump grows in my throat. “I don’t want to talk about this.”

“The truth isn’t always easy or pretty, but it’s the truth.”

I don’t know how to respond. Not that it matters. Ali and Cole come up beside us to dance. Or, more accurately, to dry-hump.

I’d be embarrassed for them, but my world is currently spinning off its axis. Faster and faster... My stomach threatens to rebel. Violently. I close my eyes and swallow a moan—and the burn of bile.

“I’ve got her, Gav.” Frosty’s voice, his warm breath suddenly tickling the locks of hair pressed against my dampened skin. “Let her go.”

“Are you sure? I can—”

“Let. Her. Go.” He wraps me in his arms, holding me against his side and leading me away from the dance floor. I stumble, but he keeps me upright. “Come on. Let’s get you home.”

Cool air hits me, and I’m glad. I hadn’t realized how much I’d overheated. Unfortunately, it’s too little too late. I wrench from Frosty and dive to the gravel-covered ground. When I land, half my dinner comes up in a rush.

“At least you didn’t vomit on my Italian loafers,” he mutters.

“That would have been...awesome,” I splutter.

Strong hands hold back my hair as the other half of my dinner pulls the eject lever.

“I’ve been keeping track of your flaws, you know,” he says.

“How kind of you.” Bastard.

“This one, the inability to hold your liquor. It’s actually kind of cute.”

Double-dog bastard.

“You look so tough. You are tough. But get a couple shots of vodka in you and it’s a total TKO.”

A moment passes, or maybe an eternity. I finally stop heaving. He picks me up and carries me to Cole’s Jeep, muttering softly, “What am I going to do with you?”

I want to open my eyes, want to read his expression, but I don’t have the strength. “I didn’t mean to ruin your night. I’m sorry.”

He sighs. “I only wish that was the crux of the problem.”

His soft words are the last thing I remember until I wake up however long later, haunted by another dream of burning to death by crimson fire. Dynamis, only twisted and warped.

Where I am? I ease upright to look around. Queen-size bed. The sheets are Star Wars themed. There’s a dresser with one drawer open, a white T-shirt hanging over the side, but there’s no other furniture.

This is... I’m in Frosty’s bedroom. His inner sanctum. He’s always made me sleep on the couch. Where is he?

My stomach protests as I stand. At least my dizziness is gone. I search the apartment, but find no sign of my partner...roommate...whatever. He must have dropped me off and run for the hills, hoping to salvage what he could of the night. Does he care nothing for his own safety? Do I? I never should have had those shots. I lost focus in a hurry. I also lost my dignity.

Fun only lasts a little while. Consequences are a lifetime. I know this better than most, which makes me twice the idiot for tonight’s behavior.

I stalk to the front window that overlooks the apartment’s parking lot. The sun is a big ball of orange-gold fire as it rises in the horizon. Beautiful, but not quite high enough in the sky to chase the shadows from the lot. At least I can see that Frosty’s truck is gone.

Asshole! My cell phone is still in my pocket because I’m still dressed in my club clothes. I text Frosty—where R U?—but he doesn’t respond.

Desperate, I text Ali. The fox has left the henhouse. Any idea where he is?

Her reply comes only a moment later. U had vomit breath. We ALL jumped ship.

Me, my cheeks going up in flames: He’s w/U?

Her: No. He’s w/the boys. Apparently he needed something called “punch in the face therapy”

Me: Why? & does PITFT mean Cole & the boys R actually hitting him?

Her: Not sure. & YES!!!

Me: They R so lucky

Frustrated, I throw my phone across the room. Of course, I suffer instant regret. If I break it, I can’t afford to buy another one. But as I turn to collect it, I glimpse a shadow creeping through the parking lot. Zombies? A Peeping Tom? Spy?

My heart is nothing but a war drum as I grab the .44 hidden in a hollowed-out book on the coffee table. I’m out the door and tracking the shadow a few seconds later.

This seems to be my MO lately. Going off alone, practically begging to be ambushed. But make a move, shadow. Try to take me down. I’ll give worse than I get.

I circle the entire lot twice, but find no hint of foul play. No scent of rot. Still. I’m not reassured. Just before Anima captured and tortured River, I suspected I was being followed and watched, yet I could never find proof.

When I return to the apartment, a sense of foreboding accompanies me.

I’m ashamed of myself—because I’m not actually ashamed of myself.

Dude. I’m a mess. A tangle of confusion, disdain, self-loathing...and desire.

At the center of all this turmoil? Camilla. In the middle of an insult-fest, I got hard for her. I’d all but called her a low-down dirty quitter, but rather than slap me, she’d looked at me with those eyes. Those luminous golden eyes. Suddenly, all I could think about—all I cared about—was that she was the embodiment of sex. A punk-rock Barbie with a jones for something rough and dirty.

I’d had a few too many shots, that was all. Vodka turns the most devoted guys into he-sluts.