Michael dropped his eyes, laughing under his breath.

Diana scowled, cocking an eyebrow as she shifted away. “Bitch.”

And then she turned around and left.

I locked eyes with Michael again, my body rushing with liquid heat. It felt good to stand up to him and his antics.

“Why are you always messing with me?” I demanded.

“Because it’s fun,” he admitted, “and you’re getting so good at it.”

I narrowed my eyes. “Why are your friends messing with me?”

But he just stayed silent.

I could see the challenge in his eyes. He knew they were fucking with me, and instinct told me to be afraid, but for some reason...

I wasn’t.

The pushing and shoving, the head games and the mind-fucks…everything twisted me up and tore me down so much that when I finally got tired of stumbling and falling and backing down, I found that it felt really good to play.

Michael leaned back in the booth, resting against the corner and looking out at the bar.

“So if Diana is Dirty Diana, what about Sam?” He tipped his chin. “The bartender. What’s his song?”

I turned my eyes out, finding Sam Watkins behind the bar, working alone. He was taking down bottles of liquor, wiping them off, and replacing them.

“Closing Time,” I guessed. “By Semisonic.”

Michael snickered, looking at me like I wasn’t even trying. “That’s too easy.” He took a drink of his beer and nodded to someone else. “Drew, at the bar.”

I inhaled a breath, trying to relax. Looking over at Drew Hale, a middle-aged judge who was well-connected but not particularly rich. His shirt-sleeves were rolled up, and his suit pants were wrinkled. He was in here a lot.

“Hinder. Lips of an Angel,” I tossed out, turning to Michael. “He was in love with a woman, they broke up, and he married her sister on a whim.” I looked down, my heart going out to him a little. “And every time I see him he looks just a little worse.”

I couldn’t imagine how hard it was to see the woman you loved all the time and not be able to have her, because you married the wrong woman.

Blinking, I looked up, seeing Michael. And all of a sudden, it wasn’t so hard to imagine.

“Him,” he continued, gesturing to a heavy-set businessman sitting at a table with a younger woman. She had platinum hair and heavy make-up. He wore a wedding ring, and she didn’t.

I rolled my eyes. “She’s Only Seventeen. Winger.”

Michael laughed, his white teeth shining in the dim booth.

He went on, jerking his chin to a pair of high schoolers playing pool. “How about them?”

I studied them, checking out the black hair hanging in their eyes, the black skinny jeans and T-shirts, and their scary black boots with five inch thick soles.

I smiled. “Closeted Taylor Swift fans. I promise.”

His chest shook, laughing. “And her?” He nodded.

I twisted my head over my shoulder, seeing a beautiful young woman leaning over the bar. I could see a good bit of thigh going up her skirt, and when she leaned back down again, I saw her pull her mouth away from a drink and take hold of the straw, dipping it in and out of a milkshake.

I couldn’t help but laugh as I turned back around, singing, “My milkshake brings all the boys to the yard…”

Michael choked on his beer, a drop of it spilling out of his mouth as he tried not to laugh.

I picked up my shot of whiskey the waitress had left before, swirling the amber liquid in the glass.

I hadn’t felt anything from the beer, but for some reason, I hadn’t really needed it. My body felt warm now. I was relaxed, despite what had happened to the house, and I felt something building in my gut. Something hot that made me feel ten feet tall.

Michael leaned in, his voice turning low and heavy. “And how about me?”

I swallowed, still studying my drink. What song described him? What band?

That was like trying to pick one food to eat for the rest of your life.

“Disturbed,” I said, naming the band and still looking down at the glass.

He said nothing. Only remained still before finally sitting back and tipping his drink up to his lips.

Butterflies swarmed in my stomach, and I kept my breathing even.

“Drowning Pool, Three Days Grace, Five Finger Death Punch,” I continued, “Thousand Foot Krutch, 10 Years, Nothing More, Breaking Benjamin, Papa Roach, Bush…” I paused, exhaling nice and slow despite the way my heart drummed. “Chevelle, Skillet, Garbage, Korn, Trivium, In This Moment…” I drifted off, peace settling over me as I looked up at him. “You’re in everything.”

His eyes held mine, narrowing with just a hint of the pain I’d felt while longing for him all these years. I didn’t know what he was thinking or if he knew what to think, but now he knew.

I’d hid it, pushed it down, and acted like it wasn’t there, but now I’d owned it, and I didn’t care what he thought. I wasn’t ashamed of what was inside me.

Now he knew.

I blinked, lifting the glass to my lips and downing my shot. Leaning over, I swiped his and slammed it down as well.

I barely felt the burn in my throat. The adrenaline overpowered it.

“I’m tired,” I told him solemnly.

And then I got up and left the booth, knowing he’d follow.

Present

THE HOUSE SCARED ME AT NIGHT. It always had.

A light wind blew outside and bare tree branches scraped against windows in various rooms as I crept downstairs, passing the ticking grandfather clock in the foyer.