The bass from the stereo rattled the floorboards, some distorted mix of Mötley Crüe and Prince bleeding into the chaos of sweaty teenagers, red Solo cups, and the vague stench of weed and beer. A wannabe cool kid’s house was packed—his parents conveniently out of town, his older sister too distracted by her new boyfriend to care who showed up.

She stood just inside the threshold of the living room, arms crossed, back leaned against the wall like it might save her from being noticed. Not that anyone was really looking. No one ever really looked at her, not in a bad way—just in that perfectly forgettable way middle-of-the-road girls were looked at. Quiet in class, but not silent. Liked by teachers and classmates alike, but no one’s first pick for anything.

She wasn’t shy. She just didn’t see the point in forcing things.

She might’ve gone her whole high school career without ever being at one of these parties, had her best friend not begged her with the kind of desperation only teen girls in matching eyeliner wings could muster.

And for a while, it was fine. She sipped on flat soda, endured someone’s very bad freestyle rap in the kitchen, and even swayed a little to the music when no one was watching.

Then came the circle.

It had started as Spin the Bottle, as it always did. But hormones and peer pressure were a wicked cocktail, and soon it morphed into the dreaded "Seven Minutes in Heaven." She tried to bow out—she really did—but the crowd, half-tipsy and giddy, wanted “someone unexpected” for the next round.

“Come onnnn,” her friend grinned, already pushing her forward. “You’re so playing. Just once.”

Before she could argue, someone yanked open the linen closet door.

“Munson!” someone called. “You’re up.”

Eddie Munson looked like he’d rather be anywhere else. He was sprawled on the arm of the couch, a half-empty beer bottle in one hand, his Hellfire Club tee rumpled, his jeans torn in a way that seemed less punk and more tragic. He scowled theatrically.

“I’m not making out with some sophomore with a retainer, sorry.”

“She’s not a sophomore,” someone shouted. “And she’s cute!”

There was a pause. Eddie looked up—and right at her.

Her stomach twisted.

“Her?” he asked, jerking his thumb. His eyes flicked over her, curious but unreadable. “She’s not exactly my type.”

“Too bad. In you go!”

It happened fast. Someone shoved her from behind. Someone else grabbed Eddie by the arm. There was a lot of laughing, someone shouted, “Clock starts now!” and then the door slammed.

Darkness.

Dusty old coats and the faint smell of mothballs.

“Great,” Eddie muttered. “Kidnapped by horny drunk children.”

She pressed her back to the wall. “This is ridiculous.”

“Right?” he said, his voice echoing slightly in the cramped space. “They always do this. Last month it was me and some guy’s cousin visiting from Detroit. She tried to steal my wallet.”

She snorted. “You deserved it.”

“Oh, absolutely.” He was smiling now—she could hear it in his voice. “So, what’s your name again?”