She leans forward, speaking in an unexpectedly serious tone. “The safe issue was the last thing that happened, not the only. It’s always something with them. They’re psychotic. Unpredictable. Someone always gets fucked when they’re around, figuratively and, well, literally.” She takes a long drink.

I find myself trying to get closer, the need for some examples suddenly high, but before I can ask, or stop myself, my eyes snap over her shoulder, landing directly on the unfamiliar view not ten feet away.

Minus my mandatory ‘hook the hunk’ exploits, I’ve spent the last two and a half months with the same group of people. Every couple of nights, there were a solid five to ten newcomers, but it’s at the point now where those who were gone for the summer have returned, so I’ve seen every face at least twice now.

Had Cali not pointed out the strangers’ appearance tonight, I’d have spotted them eventually, and been fully aware this was the first party they graced with their presence.

And goddamn, is grace not meant to be given.

All freaking hail the trifecta of trouble straight ahead.

I start with the one on the end and slowly—very slowly—make my way along the others.

Hot, hot, and yep. Hotter.

No matter your flavor of choice, one is bound to hit your tastebuds just right. Probably linger along your tongue in favor of more.

I wonder if they’re too high in demand for ‘more’?

“Will you stop staring?!” Cali hides her lips against her glass.

My gaze snaps to hers. “Girl, chill, they’re not paying any attention to us. They’re otherwise occupata.”

“Occupied by who?” Her eyes narrow, her curiosity and impatience equally piqued.

I lift a shoulder. “Guess you have to look to know for sure.”

Her frown tightens and it takes effort not to laugh. Cali puts her elbow on the tabletop, purposefully jerking and knocking a napkin to the floor so she has an excuse to glance behind her as if this isn’t her house and the rights not completely hers.

She straightens, repositioning herself in front of me with a full-on stank face.

“Poor taste must be contagious,” she mutters under her breath.

Her annoyance has nothing to do with them and everything to do with the girl, I think her name is Sammie, who has placed herself in front of them. Two nights ago, we sat back while little Miss Thang stuck her tongue down Cali’s ex’s throat.

“I don’t know, she’s kind of hot,” I tease and Cali flips me off. “So, who are these pretty party crashers?”

“Ransom Rossi, Arsen Agular, and Beretta Keller, but pretty isn’t the word I’d use.”

We turn to Scott Gentry as he steps up beside me, his attempt at a careless expression lacking in finesse.

“And what word would you use?”

“Trash,” he says unapologetically.