Get a picture of a six-person pyramid.
Get a picture of a man with lipstick on.
Get a picture of you kissing a stranger.
And then some of the tasks get a little dirtier.
They have to upload the photos to Facebook, tag our band’s page, and we’ll pick a random winner to win…something. I forget. I wasn’t paying attention.
Everyone has to purchase a ticket to get in, but since there’s a full bar, it clearly—from the looks of it—wasn’t hard to draw a crowd and get people to pay the price. The bartenders are supposed to card everyone, but I know it’s bullshit. Everyone drinks and gets away with it in this town.
“So how are you doing?” Dane asks. “Your dad on your case again?”
“I’m fine.”
He pauses, and I know he wants to push harder, but he lets it go. “Well, you should’ve brought Annie. She would’ve liked this.”
“Not a chance.” I laugh, the scent of weed drifting into my nostrils. “My sister is off limits. You got that?”
“Hey, I didn’t say anything.” He feigns innocence, a cocky smile on his face. “I just think she works hard and could use some fun.”
“Fun, yes. Trouble, no,” I correct. “Annie’s on a good track and doesn’t need distractions. She has a future ahead of her.”
“And you don’t?”
I feel his eyes on me, the challenge lingering in the air. I didn’t say that, did I?
Dane stays quiet for a moment, probably wondering if I’ll answer, but again he just changes the subject.
“Alright, so check this out,” he says, leaning in closer and holding the iPad in front of me as he scrolls. “Four hundred and fifty-eight people have checked in already. Videos and photos are being posted, hundreds of tags, and people are even going live on their own profiles… This worked better than I could’ve imagined. The exposure is already paying off. Our YouTube videos have quadrupled in hits tonight.”
I glance at the screen, noticing our band’s name with a lot of pictures in the feed. Drinks are raised in the air, girls smile, and some videos play as he scrolls, showing the warehouse.
“You did good.” I gaze back out at the warehouse. “Looks like the tour is bankrolled.”
I have to hand it to him. Everyone’s having fun, and we’re making money.
“Come by tomorrow,” I tell him. “I have some lyrics I want to try out.”
“Fine,” he answers. “Now do me a favor and go relax, please. You look like you’re at a chess tournament.”
I shoot him a scowl and grab the iPad out of his hands, letting him walk back to the guys, laughing.
Drifting around the action, I scroll the feed as I walk, recognizing lots of names of friends and classmates who showed up to support us. The small fires from the pits waft through my nostrils, and I study a picture of a guy with the word HORSE written in Sharpie over his fly. A girl points to it, posing for the camera with her hand over her mouth in surprise. The caption reads, I found a horse!
I laugh. Of course, some of the tasks, like snap a picture of yourself with a horse, can’t be done unless you get really creative. Good for her.
There are a zillion pics and videos, and I don’t know how Dane’s going to sort through all this shit tomorrow. Though, knowing him, the winner won’t be random and fair at all. He’ll just choose the best looking girl from the photos.
Scrolling down, I spot a video that starts playing, and I watch as a girl takes a bar gun, faces it upward and away from herself, spraying water. It shoots up and then falls back down like a fountain.
She performs a sexy little dance move and laughs at the camera. “I’m standing in a fountain!” she announces, her breasts barely contained in her tank top.
A tank top she’s wearing in the chilly New England February weather.
But then one of the bartenders snatches the gun out of the girl’s hand and sets it back in place at the bar, shooting her an annoyed look.
I hear a quiet laugh from the other side of the camera.
The girl in the tank top reaches for the phone. “Okay, that was embarrassing. Give it here. I need to edit it before I post it.”
“Uh, uh,” the female voice behind the camera taunts as she backs away.
But tank top girl charges her, squealing, “Ryen!” And then I hear laughter, and the video ends.
I stand there, staring at the iPad, my heart slowly starting to pound in my chest.
Ryen?
The girl behind the camera is named Ryen?
No, it’s not her. It can’t be. There are tons of girls who probably have that name. She wouldn’t be here.
But I look at the video, and my gaze is drawn to the names at the top of the post. She’d tagged the band and a few other people, but then I look at the name of the person who posted it.
Ryen Trevarrow.
I straighten my back, my chest rising and falling with shallow breaths.
Oh, my God.
Shit! I instantly look up, unable to stop myself from scanning the crowd, drifting from face to face.
Any one of these girls could be her. She’s here? What the fuck?
I look down at the iPad again and hover my finger over her name, hesitating.
Seven years I’ve known her, but I’ve never seen her face. If I search her out now, there’s no going back.
But she’s here. I can’t not look for her. Not when I know she could be within arm’s reach.
That’s too much to ask of anyone.
And we never promised we wouldn’t look each other up on Facebook. We simply said we wouldn’t communicate on social media. For all I know she’s searched for me. She could be looking for me right now, knowing what band I belong to and that this is our event. Maybe that’s why she’s here.
Fuck it. I tap her name and stand frozen as her profile comes up.
And then I see her.
Her picture appears, my stomach drops, and I stop breathing.
Christ.
Slender shoulders under long, light brown hair. Heart-shaped face with full pink lips and a daring look in her bright blue eyes. Glowing skin and a beautiful body.
From what I can see, anyway.
I let my head fall back and draw in a breath. Fuck you, Ryen Trevarrow.
She lied to me.
Well, she didn’t lie exactly, but I damn well got the impression from her letters she didn’t look like that.
I’d pictured a geek in glasses with purple streaks in her hair dressed in a Star Wars T-shirt.
I look back down at her picture, my eyes falling down her back where parts of her skin peeks through the design of her sexy shirt as she looks over her shoulder at the camera. My body warms, and I quickly scan her profile, looking for some clue—any clue—that it’s not her.
Please don’t let it be. Please just be sweet, socially awkward, shy, and everything I’ve loved for seven years. Don’t complicate it by being hot.
But it’s all there. Every clue confirming that it’s Ryen. My Ryen.
The check-in at Gallo’s, her favorite pizza place, the songs she’s listening to, the movies she’s watching, and everything posted from her latest version iPhone. Her most favorite possession in the world.
Shit.
I turn off Dane’s iPad and start weaving around people as I slip through the crowd. The heaters warm the frigid air, and I pass more fire pits, smelling the roasted marshmallows. Music blares from the speakers all around, and I flex my jaw, trying to calm my heart.
I walk up to the bar and set the iPad down, turning and crossing my arms over my chest. Just stay put. If she’s here to see me, she’ll find me. If not, then… What? I’ll just let it go?
“Hi.”
I dart my eyes up, my heart plummeting into my stomach. The fountain girl from the video stands in front of me, a few feet away.
And next to her…
My eyes lock on Ryen, and I know her friend just spoke, but I don’t care. Ryen stands quietly at her side
, eyes slightly thinned, looking at me hesitantly.
Her hair is long and straight—not curled like the Facebook photo—and she’s wearing a black, off-the-shoulder sweater and skinny jeans that are torn to near shreds. I can see bits of her thighs.
Ryen. My Ryen. I tighten my fists under my arms, my muscles tensing.
She isn’t saying anything. Does she know who I am?
I hear her friend clear her throat, and I blink, dragging my eyes over to her and finally answering. “Hi.”
Fountain girl cocks her head at me. “So, I need a kiss,” she says matter-of-factly.
I breathe shallow, so aware of Ryen it hurts.
“Do you now?” I say, noticing her long, dark hair spilling around a scarf she wears with a gray tank top. It’s fucking freezing in here.
She gestures to her card. “Yeah, it’s on my scavenger hunt.”
And then her eyes fall down my body, a smile playing on her lips. I guess that means she wants a kiss from me?
She steps forward, but before she gets too close, I take her card out of her hand and skim it.
“Funny. I don’t see it on here,” I say, handing it back.
“I’m doing it for her,” she explains, shooting a look to her friend. “She’s shy.”
“I’m picky,” Ryen retorts, and I quickly turn my eyes on her again, her flippant response goading me.
She cocks her head defiantly, staring me full on in the eyes.
So does that mean I’m not worthy? Well, well… I hide my smile.
“Lyla!” someone nearby yells. “Oh, my God, come here!”
Ryen’s friend turns her head to a group of people to her left and laughs at whatever they’re doing. She must be Lyla then.
She turns back to me. “I’ll be right back.” Like I care. “Just please kiss her. She needs it.” And then she notices Ryen shoot her a glare and turns back to me, clarifying, “For her scavenger hunt, I mean.”
She walks away, laughing. I almost expect Ryen to follow her, but she doesn’t.
It’s just us now.
A cool sweat breaks out on the back of my neck, and I look at Ryen, both of us locked in an awkward silence.
Why isn’t she saying anything? She has to know who I am. Of course, she doesn’t know I formed a band recently, because I wanted to surprise her with an actual old school demo tape for our graduation in a few months, but it’s damn near impossible to be invisible these days. Our names and pictures are on our Facebook page and the rack cards by the entrance. Is she fucking around with me?
She shifts her stance, and I see her chest rise with a heavy breath, like she’s waiting for me to say something. When I don’t, she lets out a sigh and looks down at her card. “I also need a picture of eating something Lady & The Tramp-style with someone.”
I keep my arms crossed and narrow my eyes on her. She’s going to keep up with this charade?
“Or…” she goes on, sounding annoyed, probably because I haven’t responded. “I need a picture of a picture of a picture. Whatever that means.”
I remain silent, getting a little pissed she’s acting clueless. Seven years, and this is how you want to meet, Angel?
She shakes her head, acting like I’m the one being rude. “Okay, never mind.” And she turns to walk away.
“Wait!” someone calls.
Dane jogs up behind Ryen, stopping her, and then walks up to me, scolding under his breath, “Dude, why are you looking at her like she slapped your grandma? Damn.”
He turns back to Ryen and smiles. “Hey. How are you doing?”
I drop my eyes but only for a moment. Does she really not know who I am?
I guess there would be plenty of people here who haven’t heard of us. We’re not a big deal, and this is probably the only thing going on in a fifty-mile radius, so why wouldn’t she be here, if only because there’s nothing else to do?
Maybe she has no fucking clue she’s standing in front of Misha Lare right now. The boy she’s been writing letters to since she was eleven.
“What’s your name?” Dane asks her.
She turns back, her eyes flashing to me, clearly indicating her guard is up now. Thanks to me.
“Ryen,” she answers. “You?”
“Dane.” And then he turns to me. “And this is—” But I shoot out my hand, knocking him lightly in the stomach.
No. Not like this.
Ryen sees the exchange and pinches her eyebrows together, probably wondering what my problem is.
“So you live in Falcon’s Well?” Dane continues, taking my cue and changing the subject.
“Yeah.”
He nods, and they both stand there, falling silent.
“Okay, so…” Dane claps his hands together. “I heard you say you needed to eat something Lady and the Tramp-style?”
Not waiting for her answer, he reaches over the bar and digs in the garnish containers.
He holds up a lemon wedge, and Ryen winces. “A lemon?”
“I triple-dog dare you,” he challenges.
But she shakes her head.
“Okay, wait,” he urges, and I keep watching her, unable to tear my eyes away as I try to process that this is fucking Ryen.
Her thin fingers that have written me five hundred eighty-two letters. The chin where I know she uses make-up to cover up a small scar she got from a fall during ice-skating when she was eight. The hair she told me she ties back every night, because she says there’s no hell worse than waking up with hair in your mouth.
I’ve had half a dozen girlfriends, and all of them I knew ten times less than I know this girl.
And she really has no idea…
Dane comes back with a wooden skewer, the tip holding a roasted marshmallow from one of the fire pits.
He walks up and shoves it at me. “Cooperate, please.”
And then he turns to her and grabs her phone. “Go for it. I’ll take the picture.”
Ryen’s amused eyes flash to me, immediately turning dark, because she clearly doesn’t want to eat anything Lady and the Tramp-style with me.
But she doesn’t back down or feign shyness. Walking up, she grabs a bar stool and steps up on the prongs to raise herself higher. She’s not short, but she’s definitely shorter than my six feet. Leaning in with her lips parted, she stares into my eyes, and my fucking heart is going wild. It takes everything I have not to unwind my arms and touch her.
But she stops. “I’m coming at you with my mouth open,” she points out. “You gotta show me you want it.”
And I can’t help it. The corner of my mouth lifts in a small smile.
Fuck, she’s sexy.
I didn’t expect that.
And I fold. I hold up the marshmallow and open my mouth, holding her eyes as we both lean in and take a bite, pausing a moment for Dane to take the picture. Her eyes lock on mine, and I can feel her breath on my lips as her chest rises and falls.
My body is on fire, and when she leans in farther to bite off a bit extra, her lip grazes mine, and I groan.
I pull away, swallowing the goddamn chunk whole. Damn.
She chews the bit of marshmallow, licking her lips and stepping down off the stool. “Thank you.”
I nod. I can feel Dane’s eyes on me, and I’m sure he knows something is wrong. I toss the skewer down on the bar and meet his eyes. He’s wearing a coy smile.
Fucktard.
Yeah, okay. I liked the marshmallow, Dane. I’d like to eat a dozen of them with her. Maybe I won’t rush home quite yet, okay?
My phone buzzes in my pocket, and I take it out, seeing Annie’s name. I hit Ignore. She’s probably wondering where I am with her snacks. I’ll call her back in a minute.
“So…” Dane says. “All these pictures you’re posting on the page…you don’t have a boyfriend who’s going to come hunting us down, right?”
I tense. Ryen doesn’t have a boyfriend. She would’ve told me.
“Nah,” she replies. “He knows I can’t be tied down.”
r /> Dane laughs, and I stand there, listening.
“No, I don’t have a boyfriend,” she finally answers seriously.
“I find that hard to believe—”
“And I’m not looking for one, either,” she cuts Dane off. “I had one once, and you have to bathe them and feed them and walk them…”
“So what happened?” Dane asks.
She shrugs. “I’d lowered my standards. Too low, apparently. After that, I got picky.”
“Does any man measure up?”
“One.” Her eyes dart to me and then back to Dane. “But I’ve never met him.”
One. Only one guy who measures up. Does she mean me?
My phone vibrates again, and I reach in my pocket, silencing it.
I glance up and see cameras flashing all over and spot people taking a pic in front of the graffiti wall to the right.
I step up and take her phone, surprising her. Walking around behind her, I turn on the camera, changing it to selfie mode, and lean down, capturing our faces on the screen. But I adjust it to also include the guy behind us taking a picture of two girls in front of the graffiti pictures. “A picture…”—I speak low in her ear, indicating our selfie— “of a picture” —I point to the guy behind us on the screen taking a pic— “of a picture.” And I gesture to the graffiti wall they’re standing in front of.
A smile finally breaks out on her face. “That’s clever. Thanks.”
And I click the pic, saving the moment forever.
Before pulling away and saying goodbye, I inhale her scent, frozen for a moment as I smile to myself.
You’re really going to hate me, Angel, when we finally do meet someday and you put all this together.
Ryen takes the phone and slowly walks away, looking back over her shoulder at me before disappearing in a throng of people.
And already I want her back.
I dig in my pocket and pull out my phone, dialing my sister. How much will she hate me if I ask her to go get her own snacks? I’m not sure I’m ready to leave yet, actually.
But when I call back, there’s no answer.
Punk 57 is currently available at all major retailers.