Step—ring—step—ring—step—

Calla seethed in furious silence, fantasies of revenge playing over and over again in her head as she walked, each step accompanied by the obnoxious tinkle of brass bells.

I'm going to kill him, she thought, glaring at the back of Vincent's head. The repellent, bell-riddled sweater she now wore had been his idea, after all. And he deserved to suffer for it.

I'm going to kill them both, she amended, shooting Cooper a scandalized look as they crossed the street. "I blame you for this," she hissed, flicking one of the bells dangling from the hem of her sleeve.

"But you look so...festive," Cooper said, grinning over at her. 

He dodged her finger when she tried to jab him in the ribs, so she tugged at the end of his hood—which doubled as a Santa hat—instead.

"Quit flirting back there and pick up the pace!" Vincent called, arm-in-arm with Natalie. She smiled back at them, her sweater noticeably bell-free.

"I'm going to wrap this sweater around your neck and hang you with it," Calla called back. Natalie laughed, assuming she'd meant it in good fun. Well, it would be fun for me, anyway, Calla thought, darkly amused.

"She's an angry elf," Cooper announced loudly. Ahead of them, Vincent burst out laughing.

Identical brownstone apartments huddled against the sidewalk, intimidating in their uniformity. Ignoring the boys' banter, Calla scanned each mailbox they passed, hunting for the right combination of numbers that would point them in the right direction. She'd almost convinced herself that somewhere, somehow they'd made a wrong turn when Cooper gently circled his fingers around her wrist, forcing her to match her pace with his.

"I'm not lost," she said quickly, anticipating his next question.

A miscalculation. "That's not what I wanted to talk about," he said quietly. "Earlier, you mentioned something about Michaels. What was that about?"

Michaels knows you're involved. You're not safe, Cooper.

She spared a quick glance at the next mailbox. 127. Not even close. "It was about your complete lack of communication." The bells at her wrist jingled as she flicked his temple. "And more importantly, it's about you being more careful in the future."

"Ow," he grumbled, rubbing the side of his head. "You flick really hard."

"Remember that." She considered him as they passed the mailboxes for apartments 129 and 131. "Michaels...he's tracking me, somehow. When I first confronted him, he knew to find me at the cafe. And then he was waiting for me at work—"

"Pause." Cooper peered over at her. "He was waiting for you at work? And I'm just now hearing about this, because...?"

"Because you don't know how to pick up the fucking phone?"

"Oh." He cleared his throat, abashed. "Right. Complete lack of communication, and whatnot."

"Moron," she muttered, and then sighed. "Look. The moral of this super fun, super happy story is that Michaels can track me, and he's not doing that," she added when Cooper shot a suspicious glance at a cluster of nearby hedges, "by hiding in the bushes like some D-list criminal."

Cooper ripped his attention away from the hedges. "You're saying Michaels is an A-list criminal?"

"His criminal classification is irrelevant!" Calla burst out, exasperated.

"I'd argue that's very important."

Calla pinched the bridge of her nose. "Cooper."

"Fine." Her agitation ebbed somewhat as he clasped her hand in his. "You're saying there's a good chance Michaels is watching us? Like, right now?"

She frowned. "Maybe not literally. But he could be tracking my location. And yours, too."

"What about Vincent?"

She stared straight ahead. "What about him?"

"Well, Cory kidnapped him, for starters. And you two used to be a thing—"

"Don't remind me."

Cooper's lips twitched, as if he were fighting back a smile. "What I'm trying to say is that he's kind of been involved in this mess from the start. If Michaels is targeting your pressure points..." He followed her line of sight, gazing after his best friend, a crease between his eyes. "Is Vincent in any danger now, you think?"

Calla cared very little if Vincent was or wasn't in danger, but she couldn't very well say that aloud, so she offered the only answer she could. "I don't know, Coop," she admitted. At his panicked expression, she added, "I don't know, but as long as we stick together, it's not going to be a problem. Not tonight, anyway. You and Vincent and Nat have each other, and—"

"And what?" he interjected softly. "Who do you have, Calla? When we leave, who's going to watch your back?"

She looked away from him. "I can watch my own back," she murmured, almost too low to hear. The lie tasted bitter on her tongue.

I don't think there's a way out of this one. She'd tried to tell him the truth once before, not that the conversation had gone anywhere productive. Cooper refused to see reason, refused to believe that she had backed herself into a corner without an escape hatch...

You're Calla Parker. You always have a plan. You always find a way out.

She was trying. God, she was trying. For her own sake. For his. But ultimately, she knew the odds, knew that there was a chance she wouldn't walk away from this—that this game she and Michaels were playing would end in fire and ash, and she needed Cooper to be prepared for that eventuality.

But he wouldn't listen and she didn't have the words and so for this night, at least, she was willing to let the lie slip through the spaces between them.

"You say that," Cooper said, bringing her back to the present, "but the fact that you keep getting yourself into shit storms like this contradicts that statement."

"I saved you before." Calla traced the scar on the back of his hand. "I can do it again."

"It's not me I'm worried about," he said, raising his voice. Ahead of them, nearly invisible in the twilight gloom, Vincent glanced over his shoulder. "This isn't a game, Calla."

Ah, but that's where you're wrong. It is a game. A glorious, mad game, and the board is set.

Winner.

Takes.

All.

"Calla," Cooper said, pulling her to a stop.

She cradled her palm against his cheek, his skin white with cold.Tell him. "Cooper." Tell him nothing. "I..."

He placed his hand over hers. "I know you. I know the way your mind works. Mostly." He squeezed her frozen fingers. "So I know Vincent isn't your priority, but he's one of mine. You both are. That's why I haven't told him the specifics about what's going on, but if he's in any kind of danger—"

"We'll cross that bridge when we get there," Calla assured him, letting her hand drop. "Okay?"

He nodded, dazed—and not entirely convinced, she thought. But he didn't press the issue when they rejoined Vincent and Natalie, and for that, she was grateful.

It had grown dark enough by then that it was hard to say for sure which street they were on; in fact, were it not for the telltale glow of Christmas lights, illuminating the night in brilliant color, Calla might never have found her way to the right building, wedged as it was between two identical brownstones.

"There," Calla said, pointing. The sight and sounds of the party drew them forward, and soon they were standing in front of building number 314, their faces painted in shades of green and red.

"Check it out," Vincent said as they climbed the brownstone's front steps. "Third floor."

They glanced up in unison. The first and second floor windows were rimmed with white flocking, obscure shadows crossing back and forth as people moved about the apartment. And there, on the third and topmost floor...

"That's a no from me," Cooper muttered, eyeing the erratic flash of strobe lights above their heads warily. Calla thought it rather reminiscent of another party, now years past; delighted screams mingling with Tracy's labored breath, her wide, terrified eyes fading to glass in the flickering light, her pretty-in-pink ribbons gone red with blood.

She made a face. "No third floor adventures for us, I think."

"Actually, yeah. That's probably for the best," Vincent muttered darkly.

Natalie looked at them each in turn, visibly confused, but Calla barged inside before she could ask just what the hell they were talking about, forgoing the doorbell entirely; knowing Olivia, she'd be caught up somewhere upstairs, screaming along to whatever holiday top-charter she had blaring on the speaker she and Calla "borrowed" from one of the frat houses their freshman year.

Calla smiled fondly at the memory as Cooper, Vincent and Natalie followed her inside, shuffling about awkwardly, until—

"COOPER MOTHERFUCKING DANIELS!"

"Oh, here we go," Calla grumbled as Kevin emerged from the kitchen, arms outstretched for a hug. "I'm gonna go grab some punch—"

"I'll help," Vincent offered quickly.

Too quickly.

"Okay," she said, dragging the word out. "Kitchen's through there."

The night was still early, which meant they had about thirty more minutes until the apartment became unbearably crowded. Calla told Vincent as much as they made their way into the kitchen.

"Thanks for the invite, by the way," he blurted, eager to fill the silence between them.

"Sure." She handed him a spare red solo cup. "Hold this."

"Okay." He watched her ladle punch into the cup before clearing his throat. "So. Olivia's got a nice apartment."

Calla paused, spoon hovering between the bowl and his drink. "Vincent," she said tiredly. "What do you want? I know you didn't follow me in here to talk about the decor."

She dumped a second spoonful into his cup. A third. And then they started on the next. "It's just..." He shrugged, embarrassed. "You and Cooper, huh?"

"Yup." She dunked the ladle back into the frothy red liquid. "Me and Cooper."

He grunted but said nothing else. Calla counted the seconds as they passed.

Eight...nine...ten...

"You. And Cooper," Vincent repeated, frowning down at the punch.

Calla sighed. Ten seconds. Ten glorious seconds of silence. "Vincent, is there a question somewhere in there, or what?"

The muscles in his jaw worked as he fought to articulate whatever point he was trying to make. "Cooper's not telling me much," he said at last, practically forcing the words through his teeth. "And I get that it's not entirely my business, but you know as well as I do that if you're involved in something, that means he's involved by default."

Calla scowled down at the punch bowl.

"He'll choose you over anything else. Including himself. Especially himself," Vincent amended. "I'm afraid he's going to get hurt, Calla."

So am I. She picked up another cup. "I won't let that happen."

"I don't think you're hearing me—"

"No, Vincent. I don't think you're hearing me." She met his angry stare with one of her own. "I. Won't. Let. That. Happen."

He looked away, mouth downturned in displeasure. She knew then, without his having said a word, that he didn't believe her.

Fuming, Calla topped off the last of their drinks. She couldn't blame Vincent, not entirely, for the walls he'd erected between them; they'd been built to protect himself and the people he loved from threats like her, because he knew now what she was: an inherently selfish creature who would not hesitate to indulge her desires, regardless of who might suffer from the fallout.

I can change. A weak, flimsy thought. She slammed the ladle back into the punch bowl, furious with herself. I can change. She repeated it once more. I can change.

For once in her life—just this once—she could be selfless.

She had to believe that. She had to. For Cooper's sake, if not her own. "Let's go, you unbearably honorable asshole," she snapped, shoving one of the spare cups into Vincent's free hand. He flushed, either angry or embarrassed or both, and she didn't much care to find out either way.

"At least one of us is honorable," he said after she'd turned her back to him.

"Yeah, well," she said under her breath, "at least I'm not a total pussy—"

"There you are!" Cooper called, waving them over. He and Kevin each had an arm draped over the other's shoulder. "Bring on the punch!"

Calla and Vincent shared one last, cool look before rejoining the others. At least we have some sort of understanding when it comes to Cooper's safety, she thought, though it did not comfort her as it should have. How could Vincent possibly keep anyone safe when he was clueless as to how much danger they were in? 

Maybe Cooper was right, she mused. Maybe Vincent deserved the truth, or at least a sliver of it. He could at least watch Cooper's back then...

Such thoughts were dispelled the millisecond Olivia crushed Calla in a hug, the latter holding the drinks in her hands aloft while the former babbled about engagement rings and wedding themes and I wish Kevin would get a move on and ask, already!

"Liv," Calla said patiently, leaning over to pass Cooper his cup. "You're only twenty-one. What's the rush?"

"Twenty-one is basically twenty-two which is basically thirty. And look," she gushed, whipping out her phone. Natalie peered over her shoulder, instantly curious. "There's this venue in the south of France—"

"Livy," Kevin chided from the other side of the circle their group had subconsciously formed. "France is completely unreasonable. Oklahoma, on the other hand..."

"Kevin," Olivia said sweetly. Calla met Cooper's eye over the rim of her cup, the both of them masking identical grins with a hearty sip of punch. "I will fling myself from the top level of the Empire State Building before I get married in fucking Oklahoma."

"Boomer Sooner," Kevin chanted under his breath. Nearby, someone choked on their punch.

I hope that was Vincent, Calla thought gleefully, and sure enough, she spotted him in the corner quietly choking on vodka and pineapple juice.

Olivia and Kevin spent another five minutes debating the logistics of a French-inspired wedding—whatever the hell that meant—before one of Kevin's buddies finally put his foot down and insisted they regroup upstairs to play a round of pong. Vincent and Cooper immediately called dibs on the table. "Fine," Natalie said, looping her arm through Calla's. "We'll play you."

"This is going to be embarrassing," Calla admitted, shooting the boys a winning smile. "For you."

Arm-in-arm, the two girls followed the others upstairs, only to find the second floor overcrowded with unfamiliar faces—people Calla had never seen before and likely would never see again, their features distorted by strings of red and green lights hanging overhead. A cooler of beer and seltzers had been stashed in the far corner, and dominating the left side of the room, a crowded beer pong table.

"Pong later," Olivia called, gesturing to the couch against the far wall. "Truth or dare now."

"Brace yourself," Calla warned Natalie, joining her on the green lounger adjacent to the couch. "Olivia likes her dares. They're very...creative."

Natalie smiled into her cup. "Noted." 

Olivia threw herself down on the massive beanbag chair that dominated the center of the space. Cooper sprawled out on the floor, bracing himself against Calla's legs; beside him, Vincent did the same, Kevin and a flock of others taking whatever seats remained on the floor or in one of the rickety chairs the boys had carried from downstairs.

"Alright." Olivia pointed to Kevin. "You first."

And so it went, Olivia picking victims at random to either tell an uncomfortable truth—have you ever cheated on a significant other before?—or, if they were brave, risk taking the most ridiculous dare she could think of. "Go outside and serenade the first person you see," she ordered Vincent, who looked as if he was regretting his choice immensely. Cooper laughed and boo'd along with everyone else when Vincent declined the dare and instead took the penalty, polishing off the rest of his drink with a grimace.

"Alright, alright." Olivia's eyes lit with mischief as she pointed to Calla. "Truth," she announced dramatically, "or dare."

Calla stifled a wicked smile. I would rather eat my left foot than tell any truth to these people. "Dare," she said, tossing her hair over her shoulder.

Olivia cackled with glee and stood. "You. Cooper. Closet. Now."

"Gladly," Calla said, nudging Cooper to his feet. The rest of the room whistled as they stood and followed Olivia downstairs; even Vincent heckled them as they passed by, their earlier snipes either forgotten or forgiven—though if Calla had to guess, forgotten was the more likely bet, given how much punch he'd consumed in the last twenty minutes.

"Alright, you two." Olivia opened the closet adjacent to her bedroom with an exaggerated flourish. Calla peered inside, eyeing the row of winter jackets and a rather bulky vacuum with deep skepticism. "In you go. Seven minutes in heaven," she sang.

"Question. How are we supposed to fit?" Cooper demanded.

Calla stepped inside and grabbed the front of his Santa sweater. "Like this."

Calla pulled him close, Olivia giggling as shut the closet door behind them, effectively submerging them in semidarkness. There wasn't nearly enough room for the both of them in the cramped space, but Calla wasn't complaining. And neither was Cooper.

"Cozy." He pressed the word against her neck, and her breath caught. "I really, really like this game..." Calla closed her eyes as he started to slip his hands beneath her sweater, the brass bells at her hem chiming softly—but then he stopped, and her overheated skin cooled long enough to hear him say, "You owe me an apology, you know."

"I..." She blinked rapidly. Her eyes had adjusted well enough to the darkness to make out the slight curl of his hair. "What for?"

"You know what for?"

The professor. She gritted her teeth. "You want an apology right now?"

"Now's as good a time as any," he mused, running his fingers along the hem of her skirt.

Goosebumps broke out over her arms. "Cooper..."

"That doesn't sound like an apology."

"I'm sorry you feel that way," she tried, testing out the words. But I'm not sorry for sending you after Professor Li.

Cooper brushed his lips along the shell of her ear, laughing softly. "That's not a real apology."

"It's as real an apology as I can give you." The words were hushed, but true. She curled her fingers through his hair, dragging his mouth to hers. "I'm not sorry about the professor," she said against his mouth. "It was the logical decision."

"Calla..."

His breath quickened as she nipped his bottom lip with her teeth. "But I suppose I am sorry it effected you the way it did, because it drove you away, and that drove me insane. Sometimes...." She kissed him, soft and sure. "Sometimes, I wish you could feel the way I feel. So you could understand. So you could save yourself from unnecessary pain." He held perfectly still as she unsnapped the button on his jeans. "But then you wouldn't be you. And this..." She slipped her hand below the waistband of his boxers. "This is how I want you."

"Calla," he groaned helplessly, holding her against him. "We don't have time—"

"Challenge accepted."

"You—" The rest was lost as she recaptured his mouth with her own. She'd given him what apology she could, and the rest was this—frantic kisses traded in the dark like stolen secrets, the smell and taste and feel of him still so new to her and yet just the same as it had always been, like summers spent under the oak tree and the blur of twilight pines on a backroad and a midnight grave covered in snow, their breath rising into the night like so much smoke. 

She could have stayed in that closet with him for the rest of her life. But they didn't have that kind of time. "I think it's been more than seven minutes," Cooper panted, bringing them both back down to earth.

He loosed a breathy laugh as she reclasped the button on his jeans. "I think you're probably right." She kissed him once—long and lingering and altogether too tempting.

"Trouble," he muttered, popping the closet door open. "You are trouble, Calla Parker."

They were alone when they entered the kitchen, the punch bowl notably empty. "Guess it's beer and seltzer time," Cooper said, glancing at her. She nodded and let him lead the way upstairs, hands clasped and sweaters askew. 

Olivia was the first to spot them as they rejoined the others at the pong table, appraising Calla with a salacious smile. Shut up, Calla mouthed, smoothing down her hair. Olivia cackled, poking Kevin's shoulder to get his attention.

Calla glanced at Cooper, amused—but he wasn't looking at her, and he certainly wasn't amused. He scanned the room, the crease between his eyes deepening with each passing second.

"What is it?" she asked, tugging on his hand to get his attention. "Cooper. What's wrong?"

He did look at her then, and the panic she saw in his eyes froze her blood. His throat bobbed as he swallowed and said, "Where the hell is Vincent?"