I grab the bottom of his shirt and bat my eyelashes at him as I lean in, trying not to scrunch my nose at the foul scent of alcohol on his breath. “How about you take me to your room?” I breathe against his cheek. “So we can take care of some business.”

He blinks his blue eyes through his drunkenness, alarmed by my bluntness. Most people are. And that’s what I love about it. Throw them off. Never let them know what’s really hidden in me. Never let anyone in because no one really wants to get in, not for good reasons anyway.

“Okay,” he slurs, dropping the bottle of tequila down onto the countertop, and then he drags his fingers through his clean-cut blond hair.

I keep smiling as I grab a lime slice from off the counter and shove it into my mouth. I suck the juice off so that I can get the damn tequila taste out of my mouth. It tastes bitterly sweet, but better than the burn of the alcohol. After I’m done with it, I discard it onto the counter and scoop up the bottle of tequila.

“Lead the way,” I say to J and he gives me another one of those goofy drunk smiles of his, probably thinking he’s going to get lucky after we make the deal. Most guys do which is why Preston loves having me do this for him. You’re a distraction, he always tells me. A very beautiful, enticing distraction.

Deep down, I know I could do it. Fool around with J and probably feel fine afterward. I can turn off everything I’m feeling in the snap of a finger and put it away, only bringing it out when needed. I wouldn’t feel a single part of it, which makes doing things I don’t necessarily want to do easier. Plus J’s not that bad looking, although he’s a little too athletic and preppy for me. He’s tall, with broad shoulders, and lean muscles, his entire body screaming that he spends way too much time at the gym. I wonder if he’s a jock, but I’m not going to ask him. Just like I’m not going to fool around with him.

He takes my hand, his palms clammy, and he leads me through the crowd of college-age people packed in the townhouse living room, where a game of beer pong is going on. A few of the girls shoot me dirty looks, like I don’t belong with a clean-cut guy like J who’s wearing a collared shirt and a watch that probably cost more than all the money I’ve spent in my entire life. And I’m fine with it, too high on the thrill of what I’m doing—what I’m about to do. The danger. The instability. The adrenaline.