He Shoots, She scores

Chapter Twenty-Seven: Gracie | Bodyguard

I love Halloween.

As a kid, living with a single mother meant I cherished the days where it was just us trick-or-treating around the neighbourhood. She always encouraged me to go all out for my costumes, and she always helped me with each one. Whether that was stitching the gown to be Ruth Beider Ginsberg, or dying my hair blonde to replicate Hannah Montana. In my high school days, when I was too old to beg for candy, we'd cozy up together on the couch and watch the least scary Halloween movies we could find.

It goes without saying that I wasn't the party type. I had never gone to an official high school party before, you know, like the ones on TV with the red solo cups and keg stands. Now that I'm in college apart from my mother, at a legitimate party, I know she'd go push me to 'live out these days' because according to her, 'I wasn't getting any younger.' I mean sure, there was the party that happened following the first hockey game, but that didn't count because I was too mad to have fun.

This party is going well so far though. The guys have done a great job with the house. There's streamers and cobwebs littering every corner, complete with caution tape and fake blood on the windows. Nessa and I helped as much as we could, but RJ and Eli take Halloween very seriously, so they were the ones primarily steering the boat. The house is jam packed, and I recognize some from my classes, but most of them are foreign to me. The majority are friends of the guys, and everybody is dancing around, getting drunk, so I decide, why not? This is one of the few nights a year I'm allowed to do it, so why not enjoy it, right?

So I do. Well, I try. Emphasis on 'try.' It'd be easier if Weston wasn't shadowing me like my own personal bodyguard. At first, I thought I was imagining it. But then as guests started trickling in, pre-dominantly the male ones, Weston has been glued to my side. I go to grab a drink from the kitchen, he's right there. I go talk to a friend in the living room, boom, he's there. I go for a pee break, and boom, he's outside the bathroom waiting for me. I'm not the only one who's noticed either.

"Is it just me or is Weston following you?" Nessa shouts into my ear just as the flash goes off. We're taking a group picture with some girls we just met because we found our costumes somewhat matching.

"Oh good. So you see it too" I shout back. Even now, as we're fake smiling and posing, I catch Weston in the peripheral leaning against the wall, his eyes darting from me back to the crowd in our living room. He's been doing that a lot tonight. Scanning the premise as if scavenging for a lost bomb.

"What's his deal?" she asks.

"No idea." He doesn't look like he's enjoying himself. He's not wearing a costume, there's no drink in his hand, he hasn't smiled or talked to anyone in his vicinity. And I'd know, because I've seen more than a handful of girls try to make small talk with him, only to be shut down by a curt smile. One that reads, sorry, but get lost. And then, when some guy from the lacrosse team, Hayden or something, started chatting with me, Weston threw his arm over my shoulder and levelled Hayden with a menacing stare. I haven't seen Hayden since. I wouldn't be surprised if he instantly fled the party.

"Be right back" I say, squeezing her arm. I walk right up to Mr. Macho himself, who doesn't even bother trying to hide what he's doing. He continues staring directly at me. Except now, his tough guy persona is gone, and he's smiling.

"Lavergne." He nods. "Having fun?"

"Not really" is all I say before gripping onto his wrist and dragging him into the vacant bathroom. I lock the door before swiveling to face him.

"Did you just lock the door?" Weston asks. His face contorts into an amused expression, and with raging red cheeks, I quickly shut down any assumptions he might have in that perverted head of his.