The Switch

Chapter 10

Ivy

He's not coming back.

And what's worse than almost fucking my brother's best friend, is waiting up for him to come and do it again.

Three hours of sitting here in silence, staring at the clock as if I could make time move faster by watching it hard enough.

I was quickly proven insane.

There was no sign of him. No knock on my bedroom door, no headlights sweeping over the driveway, no texts, no calls— though, in his defense, he didn't have my number. But that doesn't matter, not really.

What matters is I waited for him, even when I told myself I wouldn't.

I'm so fucking stupid.

I roll over in bed, grabbing my phone off the nightstand for the hundredth time, and open up Instagram again. I don't have to search for what I'm looking for, because the hashtag #LRFF is already sitting there in my recent searches. I tap on it, scrolling through endless videos and pictures from the night. In one of them, posted three hours ago, my brother and Lincoln Vandenbrook are crowding some blonde girl outside of a haunted house attraction, her long leg hiked around my brother's waist and her lips on Lincoln's.

Gag.

I vaguely remember hearing about my brother and LV sharing their things— girls included. A detail I wish I could erase from memory.

I continue to scroll, knowing I won't find anything. The pictures of Greyson are from hours ago, when the night first started. But there's one video of him at the Circuit —a rundown racetrack where people like him illegally race, get high, and party— that I keep coming back to.

Bulletproof by La Roux is blaring from his bike, and Greyson's mouthing along to the lyrics, grinning, green eyes alive and happy. Over the past few weeks, I've noticed that about him, the way his eyes reflect his emotions like an open flame, and how he doesn't even bother to hide it.

There's a confidence in him that you can't fake, a certainty in every gesture, every look.

I feel a stupid smile tug at my lips as Greyson suddenly jumps onto my brother's car, abandoning his bike without a second thought to dance. There's a blunt in his mouth, and he laughs out the lyrics around it, every line dripping with a raw, almost reckless energy that's magnetic— hypnotic, even.

His movements are smooth, cocky, like he's caught up in a rhythm that's entirely his own.

Been there, done that, messed around

I'm having fun, don't put me down

I'll never let you sweep me off my feet

This time, baby, I'll be bulletproof

Yeah, very on brand.

"Get the fuck off my car," Ithan's voice cuts in, barely audible over the music. I can't see him in the video, but his annoyance is clear. Greyson just laughs, throwing a wink at the camera before slipping his mask over his face— the one that's burned into my mind.

People around him laugh, looking at him like he's some God. And, maybe he is. There's a dangerous edge to him, a wild glint in his eyes that says he doesn't give a fuck who's watching— or maybe that he knows everyone is, and he likes it.

I can hear girls giggling behind the camera, others laughing along, everyone clearly feeding off his energy. Greyson isn't just at the party— he is the party. Where the rest of his friends are riding the high, he's pushing it, tipping it past the edge. They're the gasoline, sure, but Greyson Alister is the fire.