We Don't Talk Anymore by Julie Johnson

Author:Julie Johnson [Johnson, Julie]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Julie Johnson

Chapter Sixteen

ARCHER

We roll up to Tomlinson’s house two hours after the game. The detour to pick up the keg from Jason Samborn’s older brother took far longer than expected. From the looks of it, we’re the last people in the whole goddamn town to arrive.

Four guys pile out of the bed of my truck the second I shut the engine. Lee Park helps Samborn hoist the keg toward the front door, staggering beneath its weight. George Massey and Steve Abbott follow, shoving each other playfully on the front walk.

The Tomlinson residence looks like a ‘single family home’ stock photo, built in a cookie-cutter, upper-middle-class style. There’s a white picket fence and a tree swing in the front yard, for god’s sake. Everything is color-coordinated in safe neutral tones; the camouflage of suburbia.

Nothing Baby Boomers enjoy more than a nice beige.

Inside, half the senior class is already in full party mode. Translation: half the senior class is already well on their way to wasted. Music blasts from the speakers — some antiseptic pop song I don’t recognize. Sienna and two of her minions are standing on the coffee table, shaking their asses to the beat, putting on a show for anyone willing to watch.

Several of my teammates appear more than willing. They ogle from their spots on the sectional, sipping frothy cups of beer, their eyes glued to Sienna’s body. When she sees me walk in, she winks one heavily-lashed eye in my direction and blows me a kiss.

I keep moving.

“Yo!” Tomlinson yells from the kitchen as we make our way deeper into the house. “You guys finally made it! Bring the backup keg in here, will you? The first one is already tapped.”

I scan the scene, eyes sweeping from one dark corner of the party to the other. It’s the standard crowd — thirty or so jocks and cheerleaders, the odd band geek or student council member mixed in for extra flavor. A small group is playing flip-cup on the kitchen table. A few couples are making out against the walls. Several people have already spilled out onto the patio, stripping down to their underwear and jumping into the hot tub.

I spot the Wadell twins shooting pool in the adjacent billiards room, a flock of boys surrounding them. Their platinum bobs practically glow in the dark as they drape themselves across the green felt, short skirts flashing hot pink underwear every time they bend over. They’re firing balls into pockets with remarkable precision, given the fact that there’s a snowflake’s chance in hell either of them is sober enough to see straight.

The twins party harder than most guys twice their size.

“Archie!” they squeal in unison as I step into the room. Promptly shoving their pool sticks into the nearest onlookers’ hands, they bounce over to me. Each hooks an elbow with one of mine, so I’m fully sandwiched.

“Don’t call me that,” I grumble.

“Oh, you.” Twin A swats me on the arm. “Always so very grouchy.”

“Seriously, downright grumpy,” Twin B concurs.

I fight the urge to jerk away from them.

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