Chapter Twelve

Willow

I used to believe I was allergic to parties. Every time I went to one, my body physically reacted. My muscles tightened, stomach churned, and my blood pressure went up, like a gazillion notches.

Okay, maybe I didn't really believe I was allergic. Rowdy crowds, loud noises, and drunken stupidity just make me edgy. Tonight, though, I've turned into a hypocrite. Tonight, I'm at Beck's party, and I've had enough to drink that the loud music isn't horrible, the drunken stupidity is more funny than annoying, and the crowd ... Well, all the people crammed into the spacious living room are still kind of overwhelming yet not enough to make me want to leave.

I blame my relaxed state of mind on the whiskey I drank before I left Luna's place. I hadn't planned on drinking, but as the weight of life began to splinter my chest apart, I decided I needed to calm down. So, I took a few drinks, or three or four or ten, and then I headed off to my favorite place in the world—Beck's.

Beck has stuck to my side the entire night, adding to my relaxed state of euphoria.

Beck and whiskey equal forgetting all of my shitty choices.

Beck and Beck equal happy drunk Willow.

Beck. And Beck. And Beck. He's a stream through my mind, my favorite song stuck on repeat.

Shit, I'm so drunk.

Every so often, worry creeps up in my drunken stupidity, warning me I'm playing with fire and am about to get burned. Right now, that probably sounds more appealing than it should.

"Relax, Princess," Beck breathes into my ear as the bass of the song throbs through my chest. He moves up behind me, aligning his chest with my back, folding his fingertips into my hips. "Dancing's supposed to be fun." He grins at me from over my shoulder, his hips pressed against my ass.

Sober, I might panic the hell out with the intimate move. Drunk ...? Well, it feels kind of good.

Okay, really, really good.

"I am having fun," I announce, which is the partial truth. I'm not having a shitty time or anything. It's just, every time too many people get all up in my business, I have flashbacks of being at work or at the apartment during one of my mom's parties.

"No, you're not. You're all worked up." He molds his palms around my hips, and I slump against his chest, my head bobbing back. "Stop worrying so much about whatever everyone else is doing and dance with me." He draws me even closer, if that's possible, and slips his arm around my waist, splaying his fingers across my abdomen.

Soberness attempts to press through my numbed mind, and my voice of reason attempts to make a grand appearance. We're too close. Way, way, I-can-feel everything close. Beck is touching me. Beck is grinding against my ass. Beck is enjoying this dancing thing a little too much. I'm enjoying this dirty dancing a little too much. Remember what happened the last time we both enjoyed dancing too much.

I should probably stop this, right? Suddenly, my voice of reason sounds drunk, too.

I sneak a glance at Ari, Luna, and Grey to see what they think of this dirty dancing going on between Beck and me.

Ari is too distracted, busting out disco moves, and Luna is too busy gazing lustfully into her boyfriend's eyes. If Wynter were here, she'd totally notice the one-step-away-from-a-porn-show dancing going on. Wynter misses nothing.

Even though only Beck and I seem to be aware of how much we're touching each other, I still feel as if I'm secretly doing something naughty. If I were sober, I'd bail out now. But I'm not sober. I'm drunk and dizzy and confused about what I want and what I don't want. Who I am and who I'm not. Where I belong and where I don't.

Up until a couple of months ago, I was a plan-everything, play-by-the-book kind of girl, even if my decisions weren't always the best. So, this reckless, dancing with confusion thing is foreign, wild, crazy, out-of-control territory.

What the hell do I want? To stop dancing with Beck? For him to stop touching me?

I shake my head a few times to clear the fogginess in my mind. All that does is make the room spin.

"Stop overthinking," Beck playfully scolds, softly pinching my hip. When I freeze, he si

ghs. "You said you wanted to have fun tonight, remember?"

I bob my head up and down.

"Well, in order to have fun, you have to relax. Trust me, I know. I'm all about the fun." He massages my hips with his fingertips. "You're too tense. You need to loosen up. And not just tonight, but every damn day. I think I'm going to make that my goal ... to make you loosen up every single day."

I giggle because he's drunk and babbling, and it's hilarious.

"Oh, yeah?"

"Yeah." He puts his lips to my ear, grazing his teeth along my earlobe. "You must be really drunk since you're not arguing with me."

I shiver in the best way ever. "I probably should ... You're too good to me."

"No way. I'm not good enough. I'll never be until I find a way for you to live a stress-free life."

"I don't know if that's possible ... I'm always tense. Life is tense. If life weren't tense, then maybe I could chillax. I don't think I'll ever be able to do that," I murmur, reaching back to run my fingers through his hair. I don't even know why I do it other than I've lost complete control of my obsessive need to harness my feelings.

My hand and fingers develop a mind of their own, needing to feel how soft his hair is, something I've thought about a time or two over the years if I'm being totally honest with myself.

"I've been like this since the day you met me, so you shouldn't be so surprised."

He chuckles softly in my ear. "That's not true at all."

"Is so."

"Is not."

"Is—"

"Shh ..." he whispers hotly against my ear. "Less arguing, more sexy dancing."

I giggle again for probably the umpteenth time. Then we start to move to the beat, a soft, sultry tempo. Slowly, I unwind, matching his rhythm effortlessly. As the song quickens, we grind faster, our bodies in sync. His hands explore up and down my sides, around the curve of my hips, along my arm, over my breasts. Goose bumps sprout across my flesh with each brush of his fingers.

I try to fight back another shiver unsuccessfully. Honestly, I don't care.

 More time passes, and more people cram into the living room to grind up against each other. At some point, Luna, Grey, and Ari wander off. I barely notice, lost in dancing, relaxing, and forgetting.

As the music switches to an upbeat, energized song, Beck circles his fingers around my wrists then moves my arms above my head, making me do this dorky clapping thing. I snort like a pig, and he chuckles before placing a kiss on my temple.

My legs quiver, and I nearly buckle to the ground, but he catches me in his arms and holds me closer. I smile, feeling so content. After the shitty night I had at work, I didn't think a good mood was going to be attainable. But Beck always seems to know how to turn me from overworked, exhausted Willow into a silly, giggling girl.

"See? Fun, right?" he asks, still holding my hands above my head.

I shiver as if I'm cold, although my skin is damp with sweat, and his fingers tense around my wrists.

"You okay?" he asks, sounding in pain.

I manage a head bob, but my body betrays me with another shiver.

Jesus, get a grip on yourself. He's just whispering in your ear. There's nothing sexual about it. I nearly laugh at my thought. Yeah, like I could even recognize a sexual moment if it came up and grinded against my ass.

Just like Beck is.

"What's so funny?" Beck asks as another giggle escapes my lips.

"Nothing." I shut my eyes as the music and heat absorb into me. "You were right ... This is pretty fun. I feel so relaxed I could probably fall asleep."

"Well, don't do that. I want to spend more time with you. I feel like I haven't seen you in weeks."

"You just saw me a couple of days ago. I wish we could hang out more, but with work and school and my mom ..." I trail off, my mood starting to dive at the mention of my mom.

 "Have you heard anything from her?" he asks tensely.

I shake my head. "No. The last I heard, she went to Vegas to elope."

"You really think she'd do that?"

"Yeah. And I'm nervous, when she comes back from Vegas, she'll try to let her new boyfriend move in ... if he sticks around for that long."

His chest puffs with a deep breath. "I want you to stay the night with me and take a break from that house."

I don't know what to say. I've stayed the night before, and right now, I really, really want to. What happens if I try to do naughty things to him while I'm sleeping again? Or worse, when I'm awake?

He remains quiet through the entire chorus. "Have you thought any more about moving in with Wynter?"

"I've thought about it a little," I admit. "I really want to talk to Wynter before I make any decisions. I'm sure she won't care if I move in ... but I need to find out how much rent is and if I can afford it." And I need to find a new job and find out how much my paycheck is going to be.

"You could always just move in with me." He delicately kisses the side of my neck, causing my eyes to roll into the back of my head and my back to arch. He lets out the faintest groan. "Let me take care of you."

I open my mouth to protest, to remind him we're too close to breaking the rule, but I end up yawning.

Wait. What were we talking about?

"I'm tired. I think I'm ready to crash."

"Stay awake a little longer." He brushes his lips against the side of my neck again, right along my soaring pulse. "I want to spend some time with you and talk for a little bit."

Normally, I'd argue, but he sounds so desperate. "I'll try to stay awake and hang out for a bit. I might need some coffee, though."

He lowers my hands to my sides, returning his palms to my waist. "What about if we take a break and go outside? Get some fresh air? Look up at the stars? I think there's supposed to be an eclipse tonight."

I nod through another yawn. Fresh air. Outside. Away from people. Sounds great. "Let's do it."

The throng of people dwindles as Beck threads his fingers through mine and abandons his party with me in tow. I'm eager to get outside, but when we reach the large, recently remodeled kitchen, a couple of guys and a girl stop to chat with Beck, yammering about school, what's going on at the local clubs, and giving updates on the latest gossip going around the east side of Ridgefield, aka the posh, fancy-schmancy side of town. Beck keeps giving me sidelong looks and eye rolls, and I have to bite down on my lip to stop from giggling.

The longer we stand there, the more soberness creeps up on me and the more I'm reminded of who I am and where I come from.

"I heard you were thinking about trading in your car for a Bentley," a dude with curly blond hair and a thick neck tells Beck.

"I don't know about that." Beck takes a sip from his drink. "Bentley's aren't really my style. I like things a lot less flashy."

Thick neck's brows pucker, and the blonde standing beside him wearing too much eyeshadow and too little of a dress rolls her eyes.

"Oh, Beckett, you're so living in denial." She bites her lips, twisting a strand of hair around her finger. "You're a rich, spoiled brat just like the rest of us, who loves expensive, flashy things. You might as well just own it."

I crinkle my nose at the use of his full name. Beck hates when people refer to him as Beckett because that's what his dad calls him. These people aren't in our group of friends. They're his friends, and it's strange to be standing here, watching the exchange. I mean, I knew Beck had other friends outside of our group, but I didn't imagine them as rich snobs.

"I'm not living in denial," Beck insists. "I was just pointing out that I don't need pricey, flashy things. That's all. So chill out."

"You mean, like your car. Or your house." Blondie gives an insinuating look around the spacious kitchen and the high arched ceilings. "Even the girls you date are high-end." Her gaze skates to me. "Well, usually."

"And on that note." I turn to the back door and walk out, letting their voices fade away as I down another gulp of my Jack and coke.

  I should've known better and walked away from the beginning. I know how rich people can get. The club I work at is filled with rich men who like flashy things and like to brag about being wealthy and make others feel bad that they're not. The fact that I work there, what I do ... what Van wants me to do ... just might justify the girl's look.

I think about where I was tonight, what I was wearing, what I was doing. How, when I look in the mirror, I see my mom staring back at me.

Blondie's right. I'm definitely not high-end.

I'm at the bottom. The very, very bottom.