I won't say things suddenly get better after that. I'm still openly stared at wherever I go, but having Haley by my side helps. The energy is different here than at school, and it's not just because of the fact that I'm absolutely buzzing right now, which makes me feel ready to take on anyone who's got a problem with me. People are more indifferent, more accepting, more—

Someone falls into me.

—drunk.

The girl barely looks at me as she stumbles out of my way, hand in front of her mouth. Haley catches my gaze and snorts, and I laugh too. "Don't ever let yourself get that drunk," Haley says, "if you can help it."

"I thought you liked getting drunk?"

"Oh, no, I like getting tipsy. Drunkenness is just misery."

I nod, even though I've never experienced it. I've seen it: the puking, the passing out, the hangovers. I'll stop at the buzz. Gladly. I don't even mind the buzz. "So what do we do now?"

"Whatever you feel like."

"I feel like going outside."

"Then let's go outside," Haley says, already starting for the back door, weaving his way through drunks and dancers. I follow him, but before we make it there, we run into a certain pair of blonds. Haley stops on the spot and states, "You're late."

"Sorry," says Davy/Sam.

"It's . . . not an accusation."

He nods. "Well, someone was being slo—"

"Where's George?" asks the other one.

"Sam."

Sam glares at his brother. "I'm just asking so I can . . . avoid her."

"She's in the living room last I saw her," I say, "and she's waiting for you."

Sam's face is the perfect image of pure confusion. "What? She said that?"

"Not with words."

"She's gonna kill you," Haley murmurs.

I shrug. If anyone asks, I'll blame the alcohol. Right now, I'm just curious about what Sam will do, what he will say. This is the first time he's spoken to me since he and his brother threatened me. Wait, was it . . . ? Yes, because I talked to Davy that one time. Seriously, somebody needs to explain to me how to tell these two apart.

Sam stares at me.

"What?" I say.

"Why are you helping me?" he asks.

"Oh, I'm not helping you. I'm helping George, because she's actually a nice person. Your own good fortune is just a byproduct of that."

Davy stifles an involuntary snort.

Sam's jaw clenches, but he doesn't respond.

"You know you owe me an apology, right?" I say.

I can't tell if I'm so fed up that I've stopped caring about saying "the smart thing" or if the alcohol has completely destroyed my filter. Maybe a little bit of both. Of course it's not helping that Haley is standing right next to me. Actually, it is helping. I'm not taking it back. Apologize to me.

For a long moment, Sam says nothing. He's probably thinking about how he'd rather spit in my face. Then he lets a sigh escape through his nostrils and says, "I'm sorry."

"Okay, now say it like you mean it."

His jaw drops a little. "I did! Don't make me fucking regret it, asshole."

"Hey," Haley says.

Davy grips his brother's shoulder. "Why don't you go look for George?"

Sam stomps off.

"He's . . . got a lot of feelings," Davy says, eyes shifting awkwardly.

I nod. "Clearly."

"Yeah. Anyway—"

"Shit, hold on," Haley says, abruptly turning to walk away. I don't realize why until he starts yelling, "What is this? Who did this?" He gesticulates indignantly at the floor—at a puddle of puke. "Seriously? The bathroom is right there!"

A girl bursts into tears, wailing, "I'm sorry!"

"It was occupied," someone else offers.

I turn back to Davy, who's grimacing, and I say, "I take it that's not normal."

"Have you never been to a party?"

"No."

"Oh. Well, yeah, but it's not normal here. The Sinclairs have some pretty strict rules." He starts counting on his fingers. "Don't break anything, don't use anything to drink out of except the cups they provide, don't have sex anywhere except in the guest rooms, and don't spill shit on the floor. If you break any of these rules, you have to clean it up yourself."

"But . . . they can just hire a cleaner."

He shrugs. "It's kind of a respect thing."

"So that girl has to clean up her own vomit to show respect?"

"Basically."

But even as we speak, her friends are helping her up from the floor and running into the bathroom to find cleaning supplies, so I guess it's not so much her specifically; it's more of a general thing. Still, I'm shocked. Shocked by the fact that the Sinclairs make their drunk guests clean up their own vomit, and that they actually do it. I didn't realize just how much power the Sinclairs had over the people of Larkwood. I understand now why Haley thought throwing a party and denying access to those who treated me like shit would be an effective method of making them leave me alone.

I look at Davy, the guy Haley's been having sex with, and I wonder how tightly Haley's got him wrapped around his finger. Even more so, I wonder if Davy knows he's got Haley wrapped around his dick, but I quickly expel that thought from my mind.

Davy's looking at me, too. Staring, really. I have no idea what he's thinking until he asks, "Do you ever feel like you don't belong here?"

It doesn't sound like an insult.

"All the time," I admit. "But it's the house. The people. Not Haley."

"Yeah, I get that," he says, in a sort of faraway tone.

And I feel like he does.

I would have ended the conversation there, but there's a question burning a hole in my mind, and I find myself saying it out loud before I can even think of stopping the words from tumbling out. "Did you know he thinks you're all using him? He thinks none of you care about him and that people only want to sleep with him because he's rich. In fact, one of the very first things he said to me was that he didn't have any 'real' friends."

Davy blinks. "What?"

Suddenly, Haley is standing beside me.

I jump and breathe out, "Shit."

Davy stares at Haley with the face of a man who's been insulted for the size of his ears. "Do you really think I only have sex with you because you're rich?"

Haley frowns. Then he looks at me. "I'm never giving you alcohol again."

"That seems like a wise decision," I say.

"What did you tell him?"

"I said you think people only sleep with you because you're rich—like, people in general. I don't know if that's true, but I know Davy's different. He clearly has feelings for you."

"Um," Davy says.

"He doesn't," Haley argues.

"Yeah, no, I don't."

"Uh-huh," I say, not believing a word he says.

Davy ignores that comment. "Look, Haley, there are probably people who want to fuck you or be your friend because you're a Sinclair, but generally speaking, people like you because you're likable and fun to be around. And because you're hot."

Haley rolls his eyes. "Oh, I'm sure that helps."

"No, you need to listen to me. Reed—" Davy looks at me, then shakes his head. "Never mind. You're straight."

Okay, yeah, I don't want to sleep with Haley, but I have eyes. I once thought of him as the lead in a movie because he totally could be: he's got that typical pretty boy look. And I can attest to the likable-and-fun-to-be-around part. I just don't think me saying that will convince him others feel the same way.

Davy's certainly trying, though it's starting to sound more like a love confession.

At some point, Haley lets out a sound halfway between a sigh and a groan and he says, "Fine, Davy, you've made your point. If you wanna fuck later, you could have just said so."

"That's . . . not the point I was making," Davy says, "but yes."

I huff in amusement. "Did Haley ever tell you he hasn't—"

Haley slaps a hand over my mouth. "Do you mind?"

"What?" Davy looks between us. "What was he gonna say?"

"Nothing. He's drunk."

I start to remove Haley's hand when I hear a crash.

Glass. Lots of it.

It's loud enough that everyone in the hallway freezes, and for an infinite moment, the only sound is the overlapping music from two different rooms, discordant melodies and contradicting rhythms, a tentative harbinger of chaos. Then the shouting starts.

"What the fuck was that?" Haley asks.

"It sounded like it came from the living room," I say.

"George—"

Davy runs for the living room in the same instant that Haley does, their feet slapping in tandem against stone. There's panic in the air. Each face I pass is more confused than the last. And then I smell it.

Blood.

I'm too late to stop Haley from going into the living room. He's ahead of me, with Davy right on his heels. They disappear into the doorway together, and I enter two seconds later, almost bumping into someone.

The living room is in complete disorder. Music is still blasting. Everyone is shouting over it. In the middle of the room, where the coffee table once stood, is a pile of chips and shards of glass, and a boy. Both are covered in bright red. It's hard to say where it's coming from exactly, but it doesn't look like he's fatally wounded. The problem is that he needs to extract his limbs from the metal frame without injuring himself even further, and everyone seems to have a different idea on how to perform this impossible task. Adding to the cacophony, a girl is on top of the couch, yelling, "Someone turn the damn music off!"

I don't see George or Sam anywhere.

"Someone call 222," another person shouts.

"Shit," Davy says.

The expletive reminds me why I ran in here, and I look at Haley.

His pupils are blown wide. Deep, dark chasms of want. Real, unadulterated desire. His lips are parted, and his nostrils flared, as if he can smell the blood as well as I can. Maybe he can. I need to get him out of here. This is different from a paper cut, and it's been well over a year since the last time he took someone's shape. He's not going to be able to—

The music goes silent.

"Oh—Haley."

He barely responds to the girl—the one on the couch. All he does is blink.

I realize it might look to her like he's in shock, like he's scared of blood. It would be a good thing if that was true, but I know it's quite the opposite. I take a step closer and grasp his arm before anyone else notices how still he stands. There's a sharp intake of breath when I touch his skin. He tenses by my side.

Thankfully, the girl is looking at the bleeding boy again.

"Breathe," I murmur.

Haley breathes.

"Look away."

He doesn't look away. I guess that means he can't.

"Okay, you need to leave."

The nod he gives is barely visible, but it's there; he's not completely gone. I look over my shoulder and find George in the doorway, out of breath and eyes wide. I drag Haley over there and ask, "Can you deal with this?"

"What happe—are you okay?"

"I'm fine," Haley says, too quickly.

George's eyes go to my death grip on his arm. I think it might be the only thing keeping him from turning around, but it doesn't look great. "What's going on?" George asks.

"Nothing. I—I'll explain later." I don't wait for a response and pull Haley out of the room. After about five steps, I let go of him and ask, "Can you walk?"

"Yes, I can walk," he snaps.

I decide not to take his tone personally.

After gathering my bearings, and noticing how it's suddenly so much easier to think clearly, I steer Haley toward the door we were headed to before the Harding twins showed up and take him outside. Once he's breathing in the fresh air, he seems more present, but he remains silent until we've made it all the way to the garage on the side of the house. It's empty there. Quiet.

He sags against the garage door and sighs, closing his eyes. "Fuck . . ."

"You okay?" I ask.

"No." He puts his hands on his head, white-knuckled fists grabbing bunches of hair. "I'm not okay! I was one second away from jumping on that guy!"

"But you didn't. You didn't do anything."

"I could've," he whispers. "I almost did."

I watch him lean against the garage for a few minutes—I don't do anything but watch. His breathing is slow and deliberate as he tries to compose himself. When he removes his hands, he looks at me. His eyes are dark. Despondent.

For a second, I think he might cry.

"I can't live like this," he says. "I'm tired. I'm so fucking tired."

"I know."

He sucks in a deep breath. "I need your blood."

"Okay."

"I mean now."

I stare at him. "Right now?"

"This is not a good time for you to chicken out," he groans.

"I'm not chickening out. I'm just . . . trying to work out the logistics." Case in point: we're outside; the garage is closed; I don't have anything sharp with me. How are we supposed to do this? I glance at the way we came, trying to see over the hedges. "Can you go back inside?"

He nods.

So we go back inside.

Fortunately, we don't have to pass the living room on our way to Haley's room, but we still run up the stairs. It seems better to avoid anyone who might stop us. Once we're inside, he locks the door and tells me to sit—no, come with him to the bathroom. There's an en-suite, of course. Very convenient. He yanks open the cabinets and rummages around with shaky hands before putting two things on the edge of the sink: a razor blade and a box of bandaids. Then he steps back and takes a deep breath.

"Alright?"

"Fine. Just . . ." He gestures at the sink. "You do it."

I stare at the razor blade as he sits down on the edge of the bathtub, wondering which part of me I can cut without doing too much damage.

That's when the reality of what I'm about to do dawns on me. How fucking insane I am for doing this for someone I met a few weeks ago, for suggesting it at all. It's one thing to make jokes about letting him suck me dry, but to actually put a blade to my skin? There's no reason why I should go through with it. And yet, I take the razor blade in my hand.

The upper arm, I decide.

As I roll my sleeve up, I catch Haley's gaze in the mirror. His face looks tight, but I don't ask him if he's alright again. The way his hands are balled up into fists tells me all I need to know, and he's not alone. I inhale through my nose and exhale through my mouth before I bring the blade to my arm, right below the sleeve.

It's been a while since the last time I shaved, since I switched to trimming because I was tired of my facial hair growing back before the end of the day, but I know how sharp a razor can be. I don't need to remind myself not to be too enthusiastic, not to cut too deep. I only use the barest amount of pressure and still wince at the sting of it.

Nothing happens at first, but then it comes, bright red, like the boy in the living room. Slowly, it runs down my arm, following an unpredictable path. It's barely a trickle, but it's enough. I drop the razor blade into the sink. It rings as it hits the ceramic. Red splatters the white, and the smell of iron fills my nose, overwhelming and unmistakable. I'm no stranger to sinking my teeth into the flesh of a living, breathing creature, but I do wonder what it's like to taste only the blood, to take none of the meat, because this is not food. It's information. Maybe more than that.

Haley's by my side in an instant.

It's the second time he makes me jump tonight.

"Sorry," he mutters, even as he reaches for my arm. His touch is light, but he's eager. I can see it in his eyes. His voice is barely above a whisper. "Last chance to take back your offer."

Blood hits the floor, dripping from my fingertips.

"I'm not taking it back," I say.

"Good. Because you were right."

There's no need to ask about what. It doesn't matter that this is only temporary. It doesn't matter that Haley will reap the benefits for about a month, and that, when it ends, we'll need to find a new person who can sustain him for another month, and so on, and so forth. We both know it's not ideal, but it's better than this. It's better than Haley not being able to control himself in his own house when someone gets injured.

"Well, don't let it go to waste," I say.

He laughs.

And then his tongue touches my arm.

☽〇☾