Sneaking off to party veterans at the bum-crack of dusk hoists copious red flags. Numerous ill-omens, actually, to colonize three homes. Will that peg caution onto some Ivy League Supe juniors hankering for drinking their maws off and hook-ups?

'Course not!

But, alas, something. Something goes amiss. Her blaming fingers fumble between her, the seventh tequila sloshing in her gut, or just you.

You prance that bod in tandem with your hair. Flailing your arms, facile and free and unperturbed by the airless ventilation in this drunk horde. There's stares, leering lurking in her periphery, some seedy catcall whistles faintly heard neath the thundering Gimme! Gimme! Gimme!

Does she want to claw them senseless 'til it's red and raw? Does she want to claw her own for dubbing you out the "best friends since freshman year" zone? She can't be discriminative. She is complicit in this. Partially dancing, partially admiring, and—oh.

You purchase her hips. Guiding and pulling. She fucking stills. Thoughts scrambled.

"Come on, dance, partypooper!" You tunnel encouraging bait, nosing her ear. Giggling like you know your breathy shots of something thrums her heart into falsettos grander than Mariah Carey.

Whoa. Okay. Cold shouldering the fourth brew should've been her limit because this is a crime when Luke is right there. Andre and Jordan as witnesses.

There's harm in this reprieve.

Already, the bouncer's autonomy's beyond saving. Godolkin's repute is at stake if they're booted out by the felony against the truth to their IDs. Risk stacks on risk.

But her obsidian-gloved hands hooks your waist, disregards morning regrets. Memories of how they were bare on your skin seep through the leather—the faith you gave.

She laughs, loud and awkward. Dips her face, obscuring the lights tampered by cat paws on a keyboard. Now, all she feels is the brush of your skin.

"You know," her voice wavers on your soft cheek, "I'm a better dancer than you, right?" Nelly's Hot in Herre strums in the speakers.