Shifting Gears

27. Don't Trust Guys in Birkenstocks

A little over twenty-four hours later, I was climbing out of Becka's car, eyes wide at the house in front of me.

I knew Glen's parents were lawyers—both of them. I guess I forgot how much they made.

The sprawling picturesque yard with a towering mansion in the middle reminded me.

"It's something else, isn't it?" Becka remarked upon seeing my face. "And since Glen has no siblings, and his parents work at the same firm, they're often at conferences at the same time—so Glen gets the place to himself!"

She grabbed my hand, pulling me forward, and I stumbled slightly in the little heels I was wearing. When I texted her this morning asking if I could go to the party with her, she had taken this as a sign I asked for a makeover as well. She'd made me come to her house two hours before the party, and after a whirlwind of outfit changes, gossiping, and lip gloss, I was now "dolled" up.

Her version of dolled up was curled hair falling down my shoulders, a tiny black skirt that seemed to barely cover my butt and little kitty heels. Thankfully I'd made her tone down the makeup to a more natural look, but I wasn't able to argue my way out of the shirt—if you could call it that. It felt like a sliver of fabric. A white spaghetti tank top that cut off right above my belly button, leaving a line of stomach that I wasn't used to showing to the world.

I hugged my stomach uncomfortably as I followed Becka up the stone steps.

"Stop!" she exclaimed, batting my hands away. "You look hot, seriously. Flaunt it." I rolled my eyes at her, and she gave me a face before going into the house.

It was a stereotypical party you'd see in a teen TV show. Bass speakers thumped through the floor, some EDM music that was already giving me a headache. Way too many people filled the house—similarly skimpily clad track bimbos, rowdy racers tromping around with their red Solo cups, and a few dogs that raced around being chased by some boys who could hardly stand upright.

I recognized a few people, and as Becka pulled me through the hallway to the kitchen, we found Glen and then I felt a little more comfortable as I saw a few other racers and girlfriends I knew. I nodded some greetings, and grabbed an offered Solo cup. I wasn't planning on letting my guard down as much as I did at the Fourth of July party, but one cup wouldn't hurt.

I was halfway through when my eyes suddenly found, within the span of seconds, three people that made my stomach twist.

Clay had stormed in, Audrey in hand, grinning and clapping hands with some fellow racers. He met my eyes as he came into the kitchen for his own drink, and he looked over my outfit, distaste pouring into his expression as quick as the drink Glen was pouring for him.

I raised an eyebrow, ditto-ing the look. My brother was in khaki shorts and an outrageously patterned Hawaiian shirt. He was obviously trying to be the "I'm so cool I don't have to care what I look like" when I know he spent probably thirty minutes styling his blonde hair to sweep back so "effortlessly" before coming here. At my look, he pursed his lips, seeming to accept the fact neither of us were fans of each other's outfits.

Then he disappeared around the corner with Audrey.

Then Greyson walked in, maybe ten seconds later. His eyes met mine even quicker than Clay's had.

Greyson was in black jeans, and a black t-shirt. Still moody, I guess. The sides of his hair were trimmed, but the top of it fell in an actual effortless coffee-colored mess, the wavy ends of it cutting over his eyes.

His green eyes were startlingly bright as they latched onto me, raking over my body like a tangible touch. Like yesterday, it made my skin shiver, even more so because I felt so undressed already.