Actually, I feel like I can’t breathe.

When his tongue slides past her lips and conquers her mouth, I inhale sharply and force myself not to squeeze my eyes shut. Her moans and groans of pleasure seep into me like poison.

When they’re finally done sucking each other’s faces, Callum clears his throat. I turn and realize he’s been looking at me the entire time.

“Enjoy the show?” His lips twitch in annoyance.

“More than the company,” I mutter.

I’m so fed up with his passive-aggressive BS. But I also acknowledge it is my fault for not spitting out what happened between Mal and me in Ireland. Though it wasn’t my fault he had to be holed up with a business call. I tried. I couldn’t do it twenty minutes before we left for the party.

Mal and Brandy go back to their places, and I can feel my face heating up, like I did something wrong.

“Rory, your turn,” Callum clips.

I try to ignore his tone as I grab the bottle, look up at the ceiling, and say a silent prayer.

Please don’t let it be Mal.

I’m fine with anyone else. Preferably a girl. Even kissing Ashton would be okay. He is cute, a rock star, and not conscious enough to even remember this tomorrow.

My fingers clench the bottle.

“Are you planning on spinning it, honey pie, or just staring at it, hoping it’ll turn through the power of telepathy?” Ashton inquires, snickering.

I close my eyes and inwardly scold my no-show dad for the very first time since I was born.

Hey. So…we don’t really know each other, but if you’re up there, spare me the awkwardness. It’s the least you can do.

I spin the bottle, suck in a deep breath, and watch. It turns and swirls one, two, three, four times before it lands on…

“Mal,” Callum states with conviction.

“Ashton,” Brandy says at the same time.

Of course, she wouldn’t want me to kiss her crush.

Oh, and by the way, Thanks, Glen.

“I think it landed on Ashton,” I contribute.

Though I have to say, on the off-chance Glen is up there, trying to make amends by pointing the bottle toward Ashton, he is not keeping sober in heaven, because it does seem like the bottle is pointing smack between Ashton and Mal.

“It’s definitely pointing at Mal,” Callum disagrees, tapping his smooth chin.

What the hell is he doing? I’m not stupid enough to actually ask this when we’re with company.

“Guess it can only mean one thing.” British Bombshell cackles like a hyena, staring at Callum with a look pregnant with lust.

Everyone here has a dog in this fight, and hers seems to be the hungriest, most vicious one.

“And what would that be?” Callum turns to her without patience.