All of Me

seven • stay

• • •

I watch Gray become the center of attention in the group that seems to have adopted him. He's dribbled beer down his t-shirt and he takes a red cup one of the guys passes him, and I dread how he's going to feel in the morning. I don't know much, but I know it's a bad idea to mix drinks and he's been doing that all night.

But he's having fun and he knows parties better than I do. I don't want to cramp his style in front of everyone so I give him a smile and a moment later, Liam's back. He presses a cup into my hand and I know that the clear liquid isn't water. It smells like nail polish remover.

"Vodka lemonade," he says when I sniff the drink. "But we're running low on lemonade." He frowns at the drink he made. "Sprite, maybe?"

Whatever it is – and his lack of conviction isn't convincing in the slightest – I'm not going to drink it. I don't know what to do about the cup I don't want until my stomach groans with a sickening ache, as though it's warning me not to touch a drop of alcohol without eating something first.

I pull Liam closer, his shirt bunched in my fist. He seems to like that, but it's only because it's too loud otherwise. My lips are right by his ear, his long hair tickling my nose when I yell, "Could I get something to eat?"

I can barely hear myself over the music but Liam understand. He points at the ceiling and wraps his hand around my wrist. I guess holding hands is more intimate than a drunk kiss. As he drags me upstairs, Gray catches my eye. He looks confused and alarmed, leading away from his new friends when he sees Liam's hand clamped around my arm.

I mime eating a sandwich and his face clears. He sticks up his thumb and seconds later, he's laughing as someone pulls him into a game of beer pong. He has no hand-eye coordination but nobody else seems to fare much better in their various states of inebriation. He fits right in. I'd do anything for his confidence.

Forcing through the crowds to get upstairs, relief crushes me like a wave that drags me under before pushing me to the surface. I can hear again; I can breathe. It feels like a world away from the throbbing underground party, quiet enough that I can hear my heartbeat in my ears, and I can hardly tell there's a party going on beneath us.

I see what Navya means about secrecy. If the smokers hadn't tipped out and left the door open, we wouldn't even have been convinced there was a party going on here at all, let alone figured out how to get in. The front door is heavy and intimidating, and it locks automatically.

Liam leads me to a huge kitchen, with industrial fridges and counters. It feels like a proper restaurant kitchen, all shiny steel and no soul, and I get the feeling we're not supposed to be here.

"We usually have a chef," Liam says, opening a few cupboards before he finds a load of bread, "but it's, like, midnight. I can make you a sandwich?" He swings open the giant fridge, stocked with a crazy amount of cheese and meats, and what looks like a ten pound tub of butter.

"Perfect," I say, and I take advantage of his head being in the fridge to quickly dump out the vodka and refill my cup from the faucet. He doesn't seem to notice the sound of running water. I down half of it at once and try not to pull a face when it still tastes faintly of vodka.

"I'm gonna make you the Alexander special," he says, grabbing sliced meat and cheese and a box of shredded lettuce, then a couple of unlabeled squeezy bottles that look like mustard and mayonnaise. My mouth waters at the thought, hunger replacing my nerves. This may not be my scene but I'm feeling good now that I'm here.

"Who's Alexander?"

"Me." He prods his chest with his thumb. "Liam Alexander. Unless you wanna get real fancy, then I'm William Sanders Kazimir Alexandrov." He gives me a serious look. "But Liam's just fine."