“When's your birthday?” D asked.
My cheeks heated up when he asked. I’d hoped the date of my birthday wouldn't be brought up, because the attention always made me uncomfortable.
“Next month, August fourteenth,” Kill answered for me.
D frowned at Kill's comment.
“Are you ready to go find a spot?” I asked, not caring how obvious the subject change was.
Amy spoke before D could ask anymore questions. “Yeah, let’s go find a spot,” Amy answered. I could’ve kissed her for the assist.
We walked toward the grass, occasionally stopping to look at booths. Kill found a funnel cake stand, and true to his lie to get me out to the parking lot, he bought me one. I blushed at the memory of our searing kiss in the parking lot while we’d been ‘getting his money’ for the lost bet. The boys were recognized often and stopped many times for autographs and pictures.
We finally found a spot and sat on the grass to listen to the music. Kill and I were people-watching, laughing at the little kids dancing around. The boys were approached a couple more times as people caught sight of them, but for the most part, we were left alone. I ended up sitting in the middle between Kill and D, which was super comfortable, if my other option had been a seat cushioned with razor blades.
I picked at the funnel cake, no longer interested in it. Kill leaned over until our shoulders touched, “What’s wrong?”
I shrugged, catching sight of D out of the corner of my eye. He didn't appear happy by Kill’s nearness, probably figuring we wouldn’t stay away from each other.
“Let’s play a game,” Kill said loudly, so everyone in our little group could hear.
"What kind of game?" Amy asked, leaning against Jet.
“Pick someone out of the crowd and give them a back story,” Kill said.
"I call dibs on him," Jet cried, pointing toward a guy dressed in tiny American-flag shorts, a stained wife-beater, and to top off the ensemble a red sequined cowboy hat perched proudly on his head.
"Damn, I was going to claim him," D said, scanning the crowd.
"You snooze; you lose," Jet said. "That right there is Fred Frek," Jet started as all of us watched Fred begin to dance wildly to the music. "Fred's cursed with a magic mirror. When he looks into it, it makes him look good no matter what he's wearing. It was gifted to him by his ex-girlfriend, who happened to be a witch with a grudge. Poor Fred has no idea he looks like that. According to his mirror, he walked out of his house today looking as dapper as Fred Astaire. That's why he's so confident with his attire. Poor Fred," Jet finished, shaking his head as his subject tripped on his own cowboy boots and landed on his ass.
When we stopped laughing, Van went next. He picked a lady in a tie-dye dress, her bright red hair swirling around her.
We played backstory with a few other people, until it was time for the fireworks. The night air had cooled down considerably, and I shrugged into my sweater before moving in closer to Kill, trying to siphon some of his heat.
“Are you cold?” he asked.
I nodded as he put his arm around me, pulling me closer into his body. D huffed a breath out next to me. I stiffened, realizing how much I was affecting him. I began to pull away, but Kill tightened his hold on me, keeping me put.
The fireworks started, taking D's attention off us and toward the sky. Music played in the background in sync with the bursts. A huge smile pulled across my face, and we oohed and aahed along with everyone else.
When the grand finale started, the whole park began to scream and whistle. Kill removed his arm around my shoulders, and put his fingers to his lips whistling loudly.
When it was over, and the roar of applause melted into the night sky along with the smoky residue from the blasts, we trudged along with the rest of the crowd. Kill had his arm over my shoulder, as we talked excitedly about the display.
D kept stealing glances at me. He didn't need to speak, because his eyes conveyed how unhappy he was that I was allowing Kill to hold me close.
When we got home, we ended up in the kitchen devouring left-over BBQ. Jet and Amy went to shower off their tiger paint when Van and Jessie headed to bed. I was proud of Jessie; she hadn’t answered her phone when her parents had called, staunching the imminent fight.
“So, what do you want for your birthday?” D asked me.
My skin crawled, as it always did, at the thought of my birthday. I would usually try and forget it completely. My dad had never pushed me to celebrate it when I’d been little. My birthday had always been a reminder of the day my mom abandoned us, breaking our family apart.
“Nothing. I don’t like celebrating my birthday,” I said, trying to shrug off my unease.
I hoped he wouldn’t ask for an explanation, because I wasn't in the mood to share. D peered at me, and I could see the question he wanted to ask, forming in his head.
Kill knocked over a glass. “Shit, hand me that towel.”