I've only ever been on two dates in my entire life.

The first one was in ninth grade. It had been one of those group gatherings where all of your friends found a collective place to flirt the only way fourteen and fifteen-year-olds know how to: lots of fleeting eye contact, showing off, "randomness", and hugging.

I was too stoked to care.

We were going to a haunted house forty minutes outside of town. There weren't going to be parents. We were going to be real high school kids going on real dates.

It would have been amazing if it weren't for the fact that my date, Noah Taylors, didn't puke everywhere the second we stepped into the house. He claimed it was the tacos we ate before going there but everyone knew it was from fear. One look at the zombie clowns at the ticket counter and he was as green as the Frankenstein monster waiting for us at the front door.

That was the end of our burning romance.

The other one wasn't any more magical.

But this date is different.

If being invited to someone's party counts as a date.

"Ember?" There's a brief knock on my door and before I have a chance to answer, Stacie Chance bursts into the room, smiles and all.

My mother is decked out in a crisp black pencil skirt and jacket, white blond hair styled in long curls on her shoulders to cover most of her cranberry blouse. She looks so well put together, professional, and normal, I glance over at the clock on my desk just to make sure my short nap didn't accidently turn into a seventy-two-hours siesta.

It's nine o'clock on a Friday night. My mother is never in business casual attire at nine o' clock on a Friday night.

I raise my eyebrows, completely shocked. "You look fancy."

With her new heels, my mother is almost six feet tall, so her hug consists mainly of her wrapping her arms around my head. "Thank you, sweetheart! I just got this today. I thought it would be a nice treat for myself to decide to stay this weekend."

You can do a lot of things with an extra five hundred dollars, a little voice in the back of my head tells me.

True, but it beats her habit of burning money at the bars. I'll take a fancy suit over that any day.

"Have you shown it to Corry?" I wonder casually, getting off of my bed and opening my closet.

She closes the door behind her. "No, I haven't." The cadence of my mother's voice indicates that she doesn't plan on showing him her new clothing any time soon. "Where is he, by the way?"

"He's at the game right now," I tell her as I rummage through my closet. "I just stopped home to change before...umm... the stuff going on afterwards. You know, everyone's hanging out."

The last thing I want her to know is that I'm going to Nate Lincoln's house. She's not exactly fond of his parents, and the last thing I want her to do is bother me about something that might not even happen. And knowing Mom, if anything happened between Nate and I (good or bad), she'd be at his house ready to give him a talking to that would result in me having to change my name and skip town.

"What if I don't want you two to go out after the game?" Mom questions sternly. When I look over her shoulder, her lips are twisted in a feeble attempt of keeping a straight face.

I grin. "We'll just sneak out."

"So you're changing for an after party?" she wonders, settling onto the bed across from where I stand. "That doesn't sound like you. Who is it for?"

"Who is what?"

I hate myself for sounding so flustered.

"The person you're dressing cute for," she presses with a giggle and adjusts her blazer. "I'm not dumb. You never stop home to change like this."

Turning around, I hold up a sleeveless white top in one hand and a red tank top in the other. "Which one do you like?"

She taps a manicured finger on her chin. "I like the 'v' neckline on the red one. It'll show off your pretty neck and shoulders. Do you have a strapless—oh! Here it is! Okay, do you have leather pants that could go with that?"

"Me? Leather pants?" I chuckle. Mom stands up and begins rummaging through my jewelry box as I grab my makeup bag. "I have black jeans." I tell her and watch her bounce from one side of my closet to another dresser and then to my desk. "I'm just going to wear those."

"Now I want you to be careful tonight," she begins. "People do a lot of crazy stuff when alcohol is involved. With all of these new drugs, things can get really messy and I don't – I don't want you getting hurt."

The more I watch her move around, the more I notice the slight tilt of her body and the stumble in her step and my stomach clenches in a tight knot. Pre-party jitters are replaced by a dreadful calm that makes my body feel cold.

Not this. Not tonight.

"I don't think I'm going to be drinking." I growl. "I think you do that enough for the both of us."

Her eyes widen in shock and I have to pretend I don't see the bloom of pain in her eyes. "I'm not drunk, Em." She insists when she moves to stand behind me. "It was only a glass of wine with the girls. That's it."

Our eyes meet as I glare at her through the mirror. We both know it wasn't a glass of wine. I want her to admit it wasn't just a glass. But she won't. There is a slight rim of red around her dark brown irises and her eyes glaze over, pleading. And even though her guilt feels like an act, I let a deep breath and give her the benefit of the doubt. No, she's not drunk.

Not yet.

The same distinct memory of my mom, Corry, and I going to the cemetery on the one-year anniversary of my dad's death filters across my mind. I remember her pulling out a small bottle of vodka from her purse and finishing it just as quickly. She never let herself mourn. Instead, she let herself become numb to the idea of his departure and she's been doing that ever since.

Shaking off the sudden memory, I press little dots of foundation against my skin. "Corry and I will probably spend the night at the Hansen's tonight. Don't wait up."

With a sigh, Mom drops the silver necklace she had picked out for me on the dresser and leaves the room. Just as she does, my phone bursts into sound. Gabby must be wondering where I am. The football game should be over soon.

But the text message on my phone is not from a number I know. All there is on the screen is one cryptic message that drops an anvil on my chest.

Bring the memory stick or those men in the parking lot will be the least of your problems.

* * *

"How did you get your hair to stay like that?" Gabby wonders on the car ride to Nate's house. She grabs a long strand of my light hair and plays with it as I head down the road. The plaster of her arm cast has been changed to purple and she's made an effort to decorate it with floral designs scribbled in gold and silver marker all over.

My grip on the steering wheel tightens and swallowing the dryness in my throat, I smile. "I know. It's so weird. That never happens."

The mysteries of uncharacteristically cooperative hair are the last thing on my mind. I quickly glance from the road to the glove box of my car. Inside is my phone, and right next to the memory stick from Hell. After the cryptic text message, I decided to do some snooping. What was the big deal? Was I going to open up government files on aliens or nuclear codes for illegal weapons? Unfortunately, the memory stick was empty except for a folder protected by some ten-digit password.

"Well, I like it straight," she compliments as she pulls down the visor to touch up her lipstick. It seems Gabby and I have switched hairstyles tonight. While mine is straight, Gabby's hair cascades in dark curls down her back. "I have your shoes in the trunk by the way. You wanted those black ankle boots with the red soles, right?"

"Yes!" I exclaim. "They're my favorite!"

Gabby manages to finish changing from her cheerleader uniform into her dress without accidentally punching me and throwing us off the road.

As we pull into the fancy housing development of Chinaberry Circle, the streets are lined with cars that lead all the way to the secluded cul-de-sac where only Nate's house stands, surrounded by houses still under construction. A group of people in green and black letterman jackets crowd the front yard and more cars pull up behind us.

"Okay, I thought this was going to be a bonfire?" Gabby comments. A rapid bass floods out of the illuminated house and my nerves jack up from kind of nervous to a high alert of adrenaline that makes me want to puke. "How long do you think until the cops shut it down?"

I scan the blackness of the forest surrounding the area. You can't see any other houses behind it, but with how fast the music is getting louder and louder, and the number of cars lining the streets multiplying on the streets, "Maybe an hour."

"Cool." As we get out of the car, Gabby lets out a low whistle. "They better have more than just beer, then."

We head across the lawn to the front door when "Yo Hansen!" booms from behind us. I don't bother to hide my groan of despair when Chad Chamberlain runs into view. If Chad is here, Alex must be somewhere close. And if those two find out that Gabby is here, they're going to do a lot worse than break a display case this time.

They are not getting anywhere close to my best friend if I have anything to say about it.

Gabby's face lights up in a smile that spells trouble. "Oh, hi!"

Really, Gabby?

I rest a hand on her shoulder. "I thought you were done with him after you broke your arm."

But my words fall on deaf ears. The responsible class president is gone and in her place is an irrational girl who loves the attention. "I know but he apologized."

I shake my head. "This isn't a good idea."

She ignores my comment and steps forward, shrugging off my hand. "Chad! Hey!"

I shake my head in disbelief.

If that's what she really wants, then fine.

Irritation sparks through me.

Oh, well. I'm not her mother. As long as anyone doesn't get hurt, I don't care.

"Please don't let me regret that," I mutter when Alex is not too far behind.

Chad's dark eyes are already glazed over, and his slack-jawed, ogling expression says he's already in the process of mentally undressing her. "Gabby! You look great!"

"You know," I interrupt, ignoring Gabby's look of 'what the heck'. "I'm just going to head inside and get some water. You guys have fun!"

Vibrations from the thundering, bass-heavy music travel through the expensive tiles of the Lincoln House foyer. It comes from every direction, winding through my legs and into my chest in one exhilarating burst of sound.

Nate's house is even bigger on the inside, with a white winding staircase that climbs along cream-colored walls dotted with expensive pictures. There's more than a couple dozen people packed into the living room that's the size of the entire first floor of my house. Most I recognize, but there are quite a few people I know I've never seen before and that same creepy crawly sensation of paranoia threatens to take over. I push it away by focusing on the music, scanning the crowd for Nate.

Each new pulse of energy is more invigorating than the previous and I can't help but grin from ear to ear. This is what my senior year should be. Parties and boys and friends and everything I haven't had for the past three years.

But that happy mood is gone the second my phone vibrates in my back pocket. I really hope it's Corry, or Gabby, or anyone else beside the mysterious creep that's threatening me.

You still have a chance to call the police, Em, my conscience reminds me.

I purse my lips. The sooner I get rid of that memory stick, the better.

But the message on the screen is not from them. It's from Nate and it makes my stomach flutter. He's wondering where I am, followed by a message that says to meet him in the kitchen. Wherever that is.

Navigating a crowd of drunken teenagers is a lot easier than I anticipated, aside from the fact that after five seconds of pushing through I have one drink already spilled on my arm.

"You know, I should be surprised that you're here, Ember! But I'm not!" someone shouts when I reach the kitchen island covered in cheap beer and colorful gelatin shots. Warmth presses into my side and I instantly recoil at the familiar outline of the person standing against me.

Hayden Cross holds a can of beer in one hand and a cigarette in the other, dark hair plastered to his forehead, a wide grin making him appear almost demonic in the dim lighting.

"I told you I would be here," I retort, giving him the once over. His white shirt is thin enough to show outlines of tattoos on his chest and the mysterious scar peaks through his collar. It looks deeper in color than before, almost like whatever or whoever did that to him came back for another go. "Why would I lie?"

"Not sure," Long tendrils of smoke escape his lips as he studies my face. "But you never know..."

Hayden reaches forward, pushing his chest into mine so that my lower back digs into the corner of the island, and he extends over my shoulder to grab a gel-o shot from the counter. He smells like spicy cologne and peppermint even in the stench of alcohol and sweat that saturates the air. I give him a hard push but he doesn't budge.

"Care to join me?" he offers, replacing the beer in his hand with two shots. Hayden's eyes are deep pools of black staring into mine. Memories of the incident in the parking lot flash before in my mind. His eyes were the same level of dark and twisted that night as they are now.

"No thanks. I don't drink," I deadpan.

He tilts his head, "Since when?"

Another memory flashes in my mind. This time, there are police cars and smoke and the world feels like someone has put my body into a blender and expects me to pick up the pieces. I shake my head. "You know exactly when."

I don't know why I expect to see remorse in his eyes, but I do. And when there isn't even an inkling of regret in the decision that almost took both of our lives, disgust replaces my dread.

"What?" he gives a seductive wiggle of the eyebrows. "It's just one shot. I promise it won't mean anything, Emmy." He laughs. "Unless you want it to mean something else. There's a hot tub in the backyard. You should join me if you want," he moves closer and closer, "maybe I can drown you."

I flash him the bird. "Asshole."

But instead of finishing him with an insult and walking away, I take the gelatin shot from his hand and down it in one swift motion. "My Dad always said," I begin, "if someone ever saves your life, you have a drink with them and then it's even."

Hayden's lips contort into a scowl and he narrows his eyes. "Don't even start, Ember."

I match his glare. "I'm not starting anything, Cross. I'm saying we're even. And for you to tell those lunatics that are messing with me that they need to stay the fuck away."

* * *