Only If You’re Lucky
: Chapter 18

“The game is Spin the Pin,” Lucy says, satisfied with starting now that we’re all in a circle. It’s amazing how quickly she can command the attention of a room; the way a cleared throat or snapped finger sends us all scampering, so eager to please. “It’s a mash-up between Spin the Bottle and Truth or Dare.”

I feel a catch in my throat, thinking of Levi. I can’t bring myself to look at him, but I know he’s thinking it, too. There is no way I could kiss him. If I spin that pin and it lands on him, Eliza would be the only thing on our minds. It would feel like a gross betrayal—on both our parts—and suddenly, I’m so angry at Lucy for not thinking of that.

“Rest assured, there will be no making out,” she says, as if reading my mind. “Not yet, at least. The night is young.”

Lucas whistles and shoots a wink at Sloane, who rolls her eyes before taking a long sip of her drink.

“We go around the circle and spin the pin,” Lucy continues, flinging it again and watching it wobble. “Once it stops, whoever it’s pointing at will choose between truth or dare.”

“And if we don’t want to do whatever stupid thing we’re dared to do?” Sloane asks, looking back at Lucas, though I have a feeling she’s only asking so I don’t have to.

“Then you’re lame,” Lucy says. “And you drink. I’ll go first.”

We all watch as she reaches into the center with one long arm, the bowling pin between us rocking back and forth as it twirls. I look around the circle, mentally tallying the players. There’s me, of course, and Levi sitting on the other side of it, as far away as humanly possible. There’s Nicole and Trevor; Sloane and Lucas. Lucy, obviously, and three other guys who I’ve met before but whose names, up until this point, I’ve never bothered to remember. Will, maybe. James sounds right. Something that starts with a G.

“Nicole!” Lucy shrieks as the pin slows to a stop. “My first victim! Truth or dare?”

Nicole groans, taking a dramatic sip of her drink.

“Truth,” she says at last.

“Where’s the raunchiest place you and Trevor have fucked?”

Trevor barks out a laugh while Nicole flushes red, hiding her face behind her cup. I see Sloane smirk, like she already knows the answer, while the rest of the guys take self-conscious sips, trying to hide the fact that they’re already picturing it.

“Probably right there,” Trevor says, laughing, pointing to the red bench behind us before Nicole can chime in. Lucas belts out an “Oh shit!” jaw dropped low, while Nicole’s eyes bulge impossibly wide, her hand reaching out to slap her boyfriend’s shoulder.

“Trevor, what the fuck?” she whispers, her face burning brighter. He just shrugs, smiling into his drink and looking satisfied.

The game keeps going, each of us taking our turn with the pin, and with every passing round, I can see our eyelids growing heavier, our cheeks flushing warmer. The familiar mutation from sober to buzzed to something else entirely making our skin droop like overworked clay. Someone brought a collection of bottles over to the circle so we didn’t have to keep getting up to refill our drinks, and every time the pin lands on me, I hold my breath and pick dare. My legs feel tingly when I stand, that rush of cold blood as it floods back in, and so far, I’ve taken three shots of Rumple Minze, given James a lazy lap dance, and eaten a slice of room-temperature pizza some customer left beneath a table, a single bite mark already nibbled out of the crust.

“That’s disgusting,” Lucas muttered as I forced myself to chew, the coagulated cheese sticking to the roof of my mouth.

I have no idea how long we’ve been playing—minutes, maybe. Hours. Days. It could be light outside for all I know, but in here, underneath these fluorescent bulbs, it feels like we’re in a vacuum. Like we’re the only people in the world.

I vaguely register Sloane to my left, though she’s more of a smudge than anything; a blur of color as she shifts her weight, flails her arms, whatever story she’s telling growing more animated by the minute. Lucas is rambling on about his latest truth, turning what should have been a simple answer into something heady and profound. The more we drink, the more we talk—our inhibitions are lowered, emotions raised—and the room is spinning slightly, Stevie Nicks still seeping through the speakers around us, her raspy voice pulling me into a trance as she drones on about things lost and had.

I close my eyes, drop my head, my mind once again wandering over to Eliza. She would have fit in so perfectly here. This is all she ever wanted, really: all those nights when she had tried to pull me away from the safety of our bedrooms, begging me to get out. Meet people. Do something. I never wanted to go. I was perfectly content with the way things were—just the two of us, the way it had always been—and suddenly, I feel like a hypocrite for even being here. For living this life she wanted more than anything.

“Levi.”

I snap my head up, his name slicing through the music and bringing me back to life. It came from Lucy, her cerulean eyes trained on him like a predator in the night. Maybe it’s the disarming nature of her gaze, or the fact that my cup is alarmingly empty, or even the contrast of her voice to that of Lucas’s—hers crisp and clean, compared to his disjointed rambling—but I suddenly realize I haven’t seen her take a drink all night.

Her cup is right there, sitting by her side, but she’s barely even touched it.

“Yeah?” Levi looks up at her, his own eyes inflamed from the fluorescent light or the alcohol or a little bit of both. He seems surprised to replace her addressing him directly like this, though he’s been eyeing her all night, drawn to her the way everyone is. A feral tension radiating between them that’s come to feel normal for Lucy. I can tell he’s been wanting to talk to her, catch her eye, and I watch as he looks back down, realizing the pin is pointed at him. “Oh.” He lets out a laugh, self-consciously dragging one hand down his face. “Ah, truth, I guess.”

Lucy smiles, her lips curling up into that feline grin like that was the answer she was hoping he would pick. Then she leans forward, dramatic, hands on the floor in front of her like she’s about to let him in on her deepest secret.

“Levi Butler,” she whispers, her body tilting closer, a seduction in her voice that makes my skin pulse. The air around us is suddenly so charged, we’ve practically stopped breathing. “If you knew you could get away with murder, would you do it?”