Miller looked, and the way his entire face softened to see Violet made me lower my gaze. Like I shouldn’t be seeing something so private. Or unfamiliar.
He heaved a sigh. “Here goes nothing. Watch my guitar?”
“Yep.”
Miller made for the kitchen, and I glanced around in search of beer. A cooler was set up by the pool, green necks poking up from hunks of white ice. I grabbed Miller’s case and headed over, but a guy drunkenly stumbled there first. He grabbed a beer, then blinked up at me stupidly.
“Holy shit, are you the bouncer?” He cackled in my face. “Hey, look! Blaylock hired a bouncer.”
“Fuck off.”
“But for real,” the guy slurred. “Did you escape from jail or what? I heard—”
I took the beer bottle out of his hand and gave him a shove. His arms pinwheeled, and then he fell backward…straight into the pool. Everyone on the patio laughed as the guy sputtered to the surface.
“Dude… What the fuck?”
I tipped the beer his way in salute and headed back to the lounger, ignoring his curses. A few minutes later, a cheer went up from inside, and then Miller returned, looking like someone had pissed in his Cheerios.
“Well?”
“I acted like a possessive asshole, insulted her, and now she’s going to play that stupid closet game where River fucking Whitmore is going to kiss her. Maybe…more.”
“So it went well.”
He scowled at me.
“The night’s not over yet. Play the game too.”
Miller snorted. “Hell no.”
“You won’t play, but you’ll torture yourself by watching.” I tipped my beer. “Solid plan.”
“Fuck off. I have to stay and make sure she’s okay.”
That, I understood.
Miller grabbed his case and headed back inside. He took a seat in a corner of the living room in a circle of weed smokers, his guitar in his lap. I stood over him like a sentinel in case that prick Frankie showed up. Against my will, I scanned the crowd, my gaze snagging on a slim girl with bracelets sliding down her arms as she danced. My heart thudded dully, but the girl moved into a slant of light, showing pale skin and light-brown hair.
“Dumbass,” I muttered.
“Hi!” A skinny blond with long hair and a long dress plopped down beside Miller. “I’m Amber.”
“Miller,” he muttered.
“Are you going to play something for us?”
He ignored her, his eyes on the center of the living room to where some chick named Evelyn announced a seven minutes in heaven game. I followed Miller’s hopeless expression right to his Violet. Pretty girl. Sweet face. My chest ached for him as she went into the closet with the king of the jocks, River Whitmore.
“So that’s that,” Miller muttered.
I squatted on my heels beside him. “It’s just a game. Tell her when she comes out.”
“She’ll kiss him in there,” Miller said miserably. “Her first kiss.”
“Then kiss her better. But don’t let her go.”
He narrowed his eyes at me. “You have a girlfriend? Someone in Wisconsin?”