Hannah''s world narrows to a single point: Amber Rosenberg, crumpled on Jake Woodland''s pristine lawn like a broken butterfly. The perfectly styled pigtails are askew, her Harley Quinn makeup running in dark rivulets down her cheeks. A smear of vomit glistens at the corner of her mouth, transforming the girl who rules Riverside High into something terrifyingly human.
"Oh god, oh god," Hannah drops to her knees beside Amber''s still form. The grass is damp through her corduroys, but she barely notices. The skin under her fingertips is clammy, but there—a heartbeat, steady if fast.
The crowd materializes like sharks scenting blood, their Halloween costumes creating a surreal tableau of concerned superheroes and worried mythological creatures. Phones appear like fireflies, their screens casting ghostly light on upturned faces.
"Someone call 911!" Hannah''s voice cracks with urgency. The crowd shifts uneasily, a collective hesitation born of privilege and fear. These are kids who''ve never faced real consequences, who solve problems with trust funds and family lawyers.
"I said call 911!" This time her voice carries the authority of genuine panic. A girl in a cat costume—Sarah from AP Bio, Hannah''s mind supplies automatically—pulls out her iPhone with trembling fingers.
The phone barely makes it to Sarah''s ear before it''s plucked from her hand. Nate Brooks materializes from the darkness like an avenging angel in smeared Joker makeup, Jake Woodland at his shoulder. Their entrance parts the crowd like Moses at the Red Sea.
"No one''s calling 911," Nate says, his voice carrying the kind of authority that comes from years of commanding offensive lines. He tosses the phone to Jake, who catches it with the same casual grace he uses to snag touchdown passes.
Hannah watches, fascinated despite her fear, as Nate kneels beside Amber. His movements are precise, clinical—nothing like the stumbling drunk from minutes ago. His fingers find Amber''s pulse points, check her pupils, monitor her breathing. Every gesture speaks of practice, of knowledge absorbed through osmosis at countless dinner tables with Dr. Brooks.
"Her pulse is strong," he mutters, more to himself than the crowd. "Breathing''s regular. No signs of—" He sits back on his heels, some of the tension leaving his shoulders. "She''s okay. Just too much, too fast." His eyes find Jeff Thompson in the crowd. "Jeff! You sober?"
Jeff pushes forward, his massive frame making others step back instinctively. "Yeah, man. Been drinking Gatorade all night. Coach''s new rules."
"Start your car." Nate''s voice brooks no argument. "Jake, help me with her."
They move like a well-oiled machine, Jake and Nate lifting Amber between them as if they''ve done this before. Maybe they have, Hannah realizes. Maybe this is just another Friday night in the lives of Riverside''s elite—saving each other from their own excesses, protecting their carefully constructed world from outside interference.
"Everything''s fine!" Justin Moore''s voice carries across the lawn, practiced charm working its magic. "Show''s over, folks. Who''s up for beer pong?"
Hannah follows Nate and Jake through the house, her feet moving of their own accord. The halls of the Woodland mansion blur past—expensive art and family photos witnessing their procession like silent judges.
"Where are you taking her?" The question escapes before Hannah can stop it.
"My place," Nate answers without turning. "If her dad sees her like this..." He doesn''t finish the sentence. He doesn''t have to. Everyone knows Richard Rosenberg''s reputation, his iron grip on both his business empire and his family''s image.
Jeff''s car idles in the circular drive, its engine a quiet purr of German engineering. They load Amber into the backseat with surprising gentleness, her head lolling against the leather.
Nate straightens, running a hand through his green hair. "Sorry about the party, man," he says to Jake.
Jake pulls him into a brief, fierce hug. "Just take care of our girl."
Then Nate turns to Hannah, his eyes intense even through the smeared makeup. "Thanks," he says simply. "For being there when she fell." Something passes between them—an understanding, maybe, or a recognition of shared concern.
The car pulls away, carrying its cargo of smeared makeup and broken pride into the night. Hannah stands in the emptiness it leaves behind, acutely aware of Jake Woodland''s presence beside her, of the bass still thumping from the backyard, of the way the world has shifted slightly on its axis.
Some nights change everything. Some nights just reveal the cracks that were always there.
And sometimes, Hannah realizes as she feels Jake''s eyes on her in the darkness, the real danger isn''t in what you know—it''s in what you don''t.
The night air settles around them like a weighted blanket, heavy with unspoken words and the lingering echo of tires on pavement. Hannah hugs her arms against her chest, suddenly cold despite the outdoor heaters that dot Jake Woodland''s perfectly landscaped lawn.
"Well," Jake breaks the silence, his voice carrying that particular cadence of practiced charm. "That was intense."
Hannah takes a step toward the gate. "I should probably—"
"Come on, Marshall." Jake''s hand finds her elbow, gentle but insistent. "Let me get you a drink. You earned it after that save with Amber."
Warning bells chime distantly in Hannah''s head, but they''re muffled by the alcohol already in her system. Amber''s words from earlier float through her mind—something about boundaries. But what could possibly happen at a crowded party? Besides, she''s too drunk to drive anyway, and her sensible shoes aren''t made for walking home.
"One drink," she concedes, hating how her voice sounds uncertain even to her own ears.
Jake''s smile is a masterpiece of reassurance. "One drink," he agrees, leading her back toward the pool area.
The party has shifted, like someone''s adjusted the contrast on a photograph. Where twenty minutes ago there was chaos and energy, with Amber commanding attention from the diving board like a conductor before her orchestra, now smaller groups huddle around the heat lamps. The music still plays, but softer, more of a suggestion than a demand.
Couples have begun to pair off like animals before a storm. Morris and Charlotte occupy one of the poolside loungers, their limbs entangled in a way that makes Hannah wonder if Morris will remember any of their history lesson tomorrow. A group of football players pass around what looks suspiciously like one of Coach Martinez''s son''s special cigarettes.
Jake returns with two bottles of imported beer, the labels catching light like tiny promises. "Here you go, hero of the hour."
Hannah accepts the bottle, trying not to think about how much it probably costs. Her eyes scan the crowd and stop dead on a sight that makes her nearly drop the beer.
In a shadowy corner by the pool house, David—her cousin David, MIT-bound David, wouldn''t-hurt-a-fly David—has Alex Winters perched on his lap like some gothic queen on her throne. Alex''s vampire fangs are nowhere to be seen as she kisses David with an intensity that makes Hannah''s cheeks burn.
"Well, would you look at that." Jake''s laugh rumbles through the night air. "Guess your cousin''s got game after all. Who knew wizards could score?"
A giggle escapes Hannah''s lips before she can stop it. Since when is Jake Woodland funny? Since when does his presence beside her feel less like a threat and more like... something else?
"Come on," Jake says, already moving toward the pool house. "Let''s give the lovebirds some privacy."
Hannah follows, her feet moving of their own accord. The pool house looms before them, its windows glowing with warm light. Jake pushes open the door, revealing Justin Moore and Susan Lawrence in what appears to be an attempt to fuse into a single entity on one of the leather couches.
"Seriously, Moore?" Jake''s voice carries equal parts amusement and exasperation. "Your house''s like fifty feet away."
Justin detaches himself from Susan long enough to flip Jake off. "Busy here, Woodland."The story has been stolen; if detected on Amazon, report the violation.
"Yeah, I can see that." Jake turns to Hannah, rolling his eyes dramatically. "Guess the tour''s canceled. Unless..."
He lets the word hang in the air between them like smoke, like possibility, like danger.
Jake Woodland leans in, and Hannah''s world tilts on its axis.
Her hands come up automatically, pressing against his chest—solid warmth through expensive fabric. "Wait—" The word comes out barely a whisper.
She''s never done this before. Never felt the gravitational pull of someone else''s lips approaching hers. Her heart performs a drum solo against her ribs as Jake pulls back slightly, his eyes questioning in the pool house''s soft light.
Something shifts in her alcohol-addled brain. Jake Woodland—best friend to the boy she''s actually dreamed about since third grade. How many times has she watched them together at practice, Jake commanding the field while Nate executed his plays with that fluid grace that makes her palms sweat? They share the same expensive clothes, the same careful haircuts, the same air of untouchable privilege. But where Nate''s smile holds traces of shared fruit roll-ups and elementary school secrets, Jake''s carries an edge sharp as his family''s credit cards.
Yet right now, with vodka singing in her veins and the lingering effects of expensive weed making everything feel dreamlike and possible, those distinctions blur like watercolors in rain.
Hannah Marshall—straight-A student, careful babysitter, perpetual outsider—leans forward and kisses Jake Woodland.
Their lips meet, and the world explodes into sensation. Jake''s mouth is soft, tasting faintly of imported beer and privilege. His hand comes up to cup her face, fingers threading through her hair with surprising gentleness. She has no idea what she''s doing, but somehow it doesn''t matter. Somehow it''s perfect—even if he''s not the football player she''s imagined this moment with.
"WOOOOO!" Justin''s whoop shatters the moment. "Didn''t know you were into nerdos, Woodland!"
"Justin!" Susan smacks his arm, her Catwoman suit catching light as she moves. "Don''t be a dick."
Hannah pulls back, her cheeks burning. "It''s okay," she manages, trying to sound casual. "It''s probably just the costume." She gestures vaguely at her Oxford shirt and corduroys, now slightly rumpled. "Sexy librarian, right?"
Justin''s laugh booms through the pool house. "Oh man, she''s funny too! Come on, join the party. Fuck the rest of those basic bitches out there."
Jake''s hand finds the small of her back, guiding her toward the leather sectional. The touch sends electricity racing up her spine—different from how she imagines Nate''s touch would feel, but intoxicating in its own right. She settles onto the cushions, hyper-aware of Jake''s thigh pressing against hers.
The scene feels surreal, like something from a movie she shouldn''t be in. Justin Moore sprawls across one end of the sectional, his Batman costume missing the cape but somehow still looking expensive. Susan Lawrence curls beside him like a designer cat, all sleek black leather and perfectly applied makeup. Jake''s James Bond tuxedo probably costs more than her dad''s monthly salary, the bowtie now hanging loose around his neck in a way that seems deliberately crafted for maximum effect.
And then there''s Hannah, in her thrift store clothes and sensible shoes, somehow sharing the same air as Riverside High''s elite.
"So," Susan''s voice carries that particular tone of calculated interest, "you''re Tommy''s babysitter, right?"
Hannah takes another sip of beer, buying time. Be cool, she tells herself. You just kissed Jake Woodland—even if your traitorous heart whispers Nate''s name. You can handle small talk.
"Yeah," she replies, aiming for casual. "Someone has to make sure the next generation of Rosenbergs learns their multiplication tables. Can''t have them embarrassing the family name with public school math."
Susan''s laugh rings out, genuine and surprised. "Oh my god, you''re actually hilarious! Why didn''t anyone tell me she was hilarious?"
"Right?" Justin sprawls deeper into the leather sectional. "Who knew the quiet ones had it in them? You''ve been holding out on us, Marshall."
Hannah feels herself relaxing despite everything, her body unconsciously settling back against Jake''s chest. His arm drapes around her shoulders with casual possession, and the warmth of the beer makes everything feel soft around the edges.
"You should see her in AP Lit," Jake says. "The way she absolutely destroyed Peterson''s whole interpretation of Gatsby last week—"
"That wasn''t—" Hannah starts.
"No, no, tell it right," Jake interrupts. "She raises her hand, all innocent like she''s going to agree with him, and then just systematically dismantles his whole thesis. Peterson looked like someone had stolen his tenure."
"Bet Amber loved that," Susan snickers, taking another sip of something that definitely isn''t soda. "She thinks she owns that class just because she did that summer program at Yale."
"Speaking of owning things," Justin''s eyes get that glazed, reminiscent look. "Remember Hampton Beach? Now that was a party where people really—"
"Justin." Susan''s voice cuts through the laughter like a knife. "Don''t."
"What? I was just gonna say—"
"Read the room, Moore." Jake''s arm tightens almost imperceptibly around Hannah.
Hannah shifts, curiosity prickling at her skin. What happened at Hampton Beach? Why does Susan look suddenly sober, her playful mood evaporating like expensive perfume?
"Whatever," Justin waves his hand dismissively. "Have you guys ever noticed how Susan sounds exactly like that viral video of the screaming goat when she''s mad? It''s like—" He lets out a horrifyingly accurate imitation that echoes through the pool house.
"I do NOT sound like that!" Susan launches herself across the sectional, but Justin''s already moving, years of football training evident in his quick escape.
"Watch this," he cackles, grabbing her designer purse and holding it high. "Oh no, Susan! Is this last season''s Prada? The HORROR!"
"You''re dead, Moore!" Susan vaults over the back of the sofa with surprising agility for someone in a leather catsuit. "I swear to god—"
"Gotta catch me first!" Justin backs toward the door, still making goat noises. "Come on, kitty cat. Show us those claws!"
"I will END you!" But Susan''s fighting a smile now as she stalks toward him.
Justin bolts through the door, his bleating mixing with genuine laughter. Susan pauses in the doorway, glancing back at Hannah and Jake. Something passes across her face—concern? warning?—before she shakes it off.
"Don''t wait up," she says, then she''s gone, leaving only the echo of her heels on the pool house floor.
The door clicks shut behind them, and suddenly the space feels much smaller. Hannah''s awareness narrows to the point where Jake''s arm meets her shoulders, to the steady rise and fall of his chest against her back.
The muffled sounds of the party drift through the walls like music from another world—Justin''s distant goat impressions, Susan''s threats of bodily harm, the general chaos of drunk teenagers playing at adulthood.
The pool house feels different now, charged with something that makes Hannah''s skin prickle. Jake''s charm wraps around her like expensive cologne, his words soft and practiced as he traces patterns on her shoulder.
"You know," he murmurs, "you''re not like other girls at Riverside."
The line should sound cliché, but somehow Jake Woodland makes it feel real. His lips find hers again, and this kiss is different—deeper, hungrier. For a moment, Hannah lets herself believe this is how it''s supposed to be. That Jake Woodland could actually see past her thrift store clothes to something worth wanting.
Then he''s moving, shifting his weight until he''s above her on the leather sectional. His hands slip under the hem of her Oxford shirt, warm against her stomach, and reality crashes back like a bucket of ice water.
"What are you doing?" Her voice comes out smaller than intended.
Jake doesn''t answer. Instead, his fingers move to her buttons, working them open with practiced ease. Panic rises in her throat like bile.
"Stop it." The words barely make it past her lips.
"Relax," Jake breathes against her neck. "Let me just—" He sits back, pulling his own tuxedo shirt off in one fluid motion.
Hannah''s breath catches despite herself. Jake''s body is a testament to years of athletic dedication—all perfect lines and careful definition. For a fraction of a second, she hesitates, that glimpse of perfection making her doubt her own instincts.
That moment of uncertainty is all he needs. His mouth finds her neck as his hands move higher, more insistent now. "No!" The word tears from her throat. "I don''t want this."
"What the fuck is wrong with you?" Jake pulls back, his expression darkening. "Playing hard to get now?"
"Let me go." Hannah tries to push against his chest, but he might as well be made of stone.
Something shifts in Jake''s eyes then—something that makes Hannah''s blood run cold. The charming quarterback vanishes, replaced by something predatory and ancient. She suddenly understands with crystal clarity what Amber had tried to warn her about.
His mouth returns to her neck, but there''s nothing gentle about it now. His weight pins her to the couch, and Hannah feels herself drowning in expensive cologne and rising terror.
"No!" The word echoes off the pool house walls. "Get off me!"
When he doesn''t move, instinct takes over. Hannah''s hand cracks across his face with a sound like breaking glass. The shock of it gives her the opening she needs. She scrambles out from under him, nearly falling in her haste to get away.
"Come on," Jake calls after her, his voice carrying that practiced tone of wounded innocence. "I was only playing! Hannah!"
But Hannah''s already running, her partially unbuttoned shirt flapping behind her like broken wings. She bursts out of the pool house into the cool night air, her feet carrying her past clusters of drunk teenagers who barely notice her flight.
Through the front gate, down the perfectly manicured street, away from the pulsing music and floating lights and the boy whose mask finally slipped. Her sensible shoes slap against expensive concrete as she runs, each step taking her further from Jake Woodland''s carefully constructed world of privilege and predation.
Behind her, the party continues its glittering existence, but Hannah Marshall''s night of pretending to belong is very, very over.
Some masks, once removed, can never be put back on. Some warnings, once ignored, extract their own terrible price.
And some nights end exactly as they''re supposed to—in flight, in fear, in the shattering of illusions long overdue to break.