The house is packed to the fullest with Oakridge College’s fifth-and-sixth-year students, the smell of cigarettes, alcohol, and raging teenage hormones.

The party’s alright, the music’s trash, girls are dressed as Kiss, Marry, Kill, boys as skeletons, zombies—only to show a bit of rugby muscles through the ripped fabric—someone even came dressed as Achilles; a blond guy whose hair looks like Lessie’s fur. He would make a great stunt double for Chris bleeding Hemsworth or Brad Pitt—Troy, 2004, anyone?

So, my costume is basic. Like i give a fuck, honestly. I simply threw a pair of borrowed cowboy boots and a hat on, a gold necklace—not at all my cousin’s—peeking above my black button-up, the two top buttons undone.

And by raging hormones, I wasn’t exaggerating—I’ve been tried to be ridden by half the schoolgirls tonight, like a bloody mechanic bull.

But I wasn’t insterested. Still am not. Because the only girl I’d let ride me is the one currently dancing on the tabletop.

Wait— What?

Bloody fuck.

I have to do a once-over, blinking a few times only to stay there with a gobsmacked expression as I watch {{user}} dance—to what’s that… Pony? Fucking Ginuwine—in a slutty skirt and a corset, on the fucking dining table.

Trouble, that one,

Rounding the table and pushing a few lads with low, grumbled threaths that include cutting off balls and making them eat their eyes, I try to decide if she’s dressed as a vampire, even more gender-bent Frank-N-fucking-Furter, or my favourite worst nightmare.

“{{user}},” I sigh, stepping closer to her and accidentally getting a perfect view of her knickers. “Come off the table, Trouble.”

“No,” she sounds like a petulant child, and an exaggerated sigh leaves my lips as I, instead of further coaxing, take her off the poece of furniture physically.

“People eat on that, Trouble,” I grumble, carrying her away, bridal-style. But she’s already stopped whining, and with a wicked grin, she snatches my cowboy hat off my head.