Chapter Nine Piper

Chapter Nine

Piper

Now: Friday, 7:35 p.m.

An hour later, I'm pantsless, and sockless, and my jewelry has long been discarded off to the side. Everyone is at least three drinks in, but I nurse a single rum and Coke and try to guess what makes everyone tick. Not that winning a round or two would make a real difference; given the fast rounds, it's all bad odds. I just hope I can keep my hoodie on. I don't want them to see what's underneath.

Delaney's just won again, amusing Wyatt with the combination The world would be a better place if and Poor people died. Wyatt decides Willa put down the worst card: World peace.

I've played my fair share of Apples to Apples, where the key is intuiting the card captain's tastes. But with the stripping stakes, the game is reversed. On their turn, each captain is playing a game of Who put down what card? And it's like Wyatt knew good-girl Willa put down the most vanilla card, and he saw an opportunity he couldn't miss.

Wyatt licks his lips. "All that's left is your dress…."

Wyatt's smile wilts as Willa carefully shimmies out of a pair of biker shorts she's wearing underneath, and I suppress a snort.

Delaney is now card captain. She smacks a fresh navy card onto the table.

My deepest, darkest sexual fantasy is _____-_____-____.

Dirty jokes ripple around the circle. Delaney reaches for the deck. "I'll draw another one—"

Eden cuts her off. "No, play it. It's perfect."

Delaney shoots daggers at Eden with her eyes but keeps the card in play.

I peer at the options in my hand, debating which one to put down. Not that it matters. There's only one person here whose tastes I could predict, and she knows me too well.

Even if I win over Delaney, the next time Camille's up, I'm toast.

I turn the prompt over in my head. My deepest, darkest sexual fantasy is…

My cheeks heat against my will. It's only a silly game, so why does my stupid instinct keep nudging me to put down honest cards? That's what lost me my socks last time.

So I ignore the one that says No thank you and go with The only female Smurf, aiming for stupid and jokey. Finally Delaney reads out each of the submissions:

Winning the Squid Games.

Screwing your boyfriend.

Negligent homicide.

Questionable consent.

Pretending to be a virgin.

Stabbing a friend in the back.

And then mine. Delaney wrinkles her nose, I think because she thinks it's cute, until finally her mouth spreads wide with a wicked grin and she declares Stabbing a friend in the back the winner.

"That's messed up," she editorializes.

From the center of the couch, Declan whoops at his win.

"And the loser is…" Delaney takes a long pause, teasing us all. "?‘Screwing your boyfriend.'?"

"Shit!" Camille giggles. Her pants and any accessories are long gone, so she whips off her University of Arizona shirt without preamble. "I thought I could get away with that one."

"I hope that doesn't mean you're screwing my boyfriend?"

Delaney has the kind of humor where, for a split second, you're balanced precariously on a high wire and don't know whether there's a net a hundred feet below. Safe or dead. No in-between.

Next to me, Willa makes a quick grab for her drink and takes a long pull. She must be as relieved as I am to have survived another round. "No, I know you'd murder me." Camille sticks her tongue between her lips. "Plus, there's the whole being-a-lesbian thing."

"Details," Delaney teases back.

"Damn, you mean I don't have a shot?" Liam slaps his thigh with mock disappointment.

Their whole clique laughs at what must be a running joke, and Declan draws the next navy card with a flourish and reads it aloud.

High school in a nutshell.

Delaney's closest to the deck, so she slides each of us a new white-card replacement. Liam and Eden have killer poker faces, but Wyatt sucks air through his teeth at his card, and Willa frowns. When I turn over my replacement, it's my turn to be momentarily breathless.

Spike everyone's drinks and enjoy the fallout.

Blood roars in my ears, and my skin prickles with unease. The card is eerily specific. I turn it over, checking the logo imprinted on the other side. What kind of game is this?

Something thumps against the windows. Everyone jumps, and Camille shrieks. The snow is now pelting against the glass, novelty turning more serious. Or maybe I'm channeling my inner Carrie, drawing up a storm to match my mood.

"Piper, you're the last one. Come on." Declan snaps me to attention, and I hastily choose another card and pass it over.

He turns them over one by one, reading them out as he goes.

We live in a society.

Part-time drug dealer.

Failing a drug test.

Trying to make fetch happen.

Sock-puppet bullying.

Fuck COVID.

Declan reads the second to last one with the vim and vigor of an itinerant preacher. A few people clap. But then as he turns over the final card and sees what's on it, the grin slides from his face.

Outside, the wind angrily whistles, snow battering the patio doors.

And finally Declan slams the last card on the table. "?‘I'm in the prime of my life, baby,'?" he grits out, face going white in the firelight. "That isn't funny. Who put in this card?"

No one answers, but everyone squirms. A clammy coldness climbs up the back of my neck. I barely paid attention to the card I put down. Was it the drug-dealer one? Or could it have been that card?

Declan eyes catch mine, but I look away. Shit, shit, shit.

"Who's the winner, then?" Eden asks with a huff.

"I'm not playing anymore," Declan says, throwing down his cards and stalking over to the kitchen with his drink in hand. He tosses the remains of his drink violently into the sink. The ice lashes against the metal like hail on a tin roof.

No one dares to move except Eden, who springs to her feet to tend to her boyfriend's wounded ego. They whisper, heads bowed, for a minute. She gestures at the booze stash on the kitchen island, and then her gaze lands on me, and the back of my neck goes cold.

"Cam, Delaney, Wyatt, can you come here?"

They oblige. The bear clock on the mantel marks the seconds that tick by. After a minute, Eden claps everyone to attention.

"All right, we're switching to Never Have I Ever! Everyone top up their drinks."

Goose pimples prickle my forearms in spite of the fire and my hoodie. The scene is cozy. Crackling flames, snow swirling outside, and eight bright, beautiful things crowded around a couch having fun. But a current has shifted, the vibe twisted on a knife's edge.

This group is out for blood. And I have a feeling I'm next on the chopping block.