Chapter 1: Let the Games Begin

When we made up the game we were bored, very bored. I was the only one to ask: would we be involved and if not shouldn’t we put that on the list of rules? Of course everyone else figured it was self explanatory—and they didn’t have relationships that could be ruined by the game like I did. It was all Emma’s idea, really. She was so into pushing social boundaries since she got into the Intro to Sociology class taught at the local college in town.

For a high school student, it was a big deal, and if she wanted to get into the Sociology 102 class, Emma would have to do a large-scale experiment of her own. And Emma’s own obsession, since the start of high school, has been couples and how easily they can be split apart. As soon as I connected those dots—she could do the project on, gasp…how fragile relationships are in high school—she came up with the general idea.

So when we came up with the game—The Make-Out Games, not amazingly original, but still—it was all about how one little make-out session could change or have no effect on a relationship. And also, how it, with two people who have little in common, would change how they interacted.

The formula was simple, and just so we could perfect it, Emma had the first party of the summer before our senior year at her house. She invited everyone; a crowd is essential so that an absence of two people is never a big deal. Basically, you find a closet—we’ve gotten great at spotting these in others’ houses by now—steer one guy or girl that is in a relationship into the closet, where a single person was waiting.

At first, the problem was figuring out how the hell we’d get some random to head into the closet without any reason. That’s why, at first—this was the controlled experiment—we had Renee head into the closet and wait for him. Since she’d be taking one for the team, we let her pick.

Hell, as much as I love Jared, I would have went into the closet too if I knew we’d have to force Craig Bennet in there for the first time. He’s not so much popular as he is drop-dead-gorgeous. He’s too shy to be popular and too attractive to be ignored—it’s all a part of the enigma. Or, it was before their one hook-up had Craig pining for Renee so hard, it was practically intolerable. And how happy they are together now is intolerable.

Eventually—there were two weeks between Craig and Renee’s hook-up and subsequent involvement—we came up with the idea to just invite the single person into the closet. Renee went all out actually, proposing that the special stationary she bought would make it seem more…legit. A simple you’ve been chosen and then explicit instructions on when and where to show and at whose party. And just what we were banking on, curiosity, lead the first two participants in; plus we let word get out about how Renee and Craig hooked up.

And that’s where Ginny and Michael come in; they’re the wranglers. It’s not like people just wander into closets randomly. Michael, my twin brother, directs girls away from their dates/friends and Ginny, the handles guys. They were picked for their attractiveness and, well, there was no one else offering up their brother. Let’s face it, it’s not hard to shove someone into a dark closet and close the door. People are so wrapped up in the fact that they were shoved into an impromptu seven-minutes-in-heaven-like hook up, they forget who lead them to it anyway.

Then the legend grew.

It’s beyond me how it got so popular—a legend at Regalton Academy. So many people wanted to participate and even the popular crowd started to get offended when none of their prime members were chosen. Renee and Michael—both a little higher on the popularity spectrum than Emma, Ginny, and I, but not by much—heard someone planned on telling people to boycott it.

But think, when you throw someone who’s not exactly peeking socially in with the one of the gods or goddesses of the school, they’ll drop their significant other like that. It wasn’t a reflection of the actual hook-up, but an effect of the powers of social superiority. And that we did not want to study. Popularity is for another experiment, Em would say.

Still, as wide spread as the hype was, no one knew it was us. Four—well, Craig sometimes participates in the meetings too, since he insists on account of our need to have a male voice present and we never let Mike in on the meetings—girls, not especially popular, but by no means social pariahs. We just weren’t that noticeable. Renee Pesaro, Emory—Emma never goes by that name though—Patterson, Ginny Lesotho, and I (Avery Talbot), would never be suspected as the creators of this game.

It took my friends and me two months to orchestrate this. I miss one meeting…

Well, you can imagine my surprise when Ginny casually bumped me into the open closet at my left. I hadn’t even noticed her opening the door until I was plunged into darkness.

I pushed at the door, but she must have been leaning on it. Hardly aware of the fact that someone else must have been a few feet away from me—unless by a stroke of luck, they hadn’t showed at the right time on their invite—I banged on the door a couple times.

“Gin,” I hissed, “How could you do this?” Besides the fact that how was pretty obvious to me, since I know just how the games work and even the why wasn’t that puzzling; I still had to ask. Nobody, none of my friends or family at least, likes Jared very much these days.

“You know, I was under the impression that most people chosen for this were a little more receptive,” a cool voice whispered behind me. I spun around on reflex and someone’s long cool fingers wrapped around my bare (Maybe the low-riding jeans, floaty camisole and shrunken cardigan combo weren’t a wise choice for the night) hips. “Except maybe, if you could see my face, this would go a little smoother.”

“Excuse me,” I stepped back and shoved his hands off my body. I’d kill them for this, shunting me in this cramped closet with some guy who thinks he’s some kind of demi-god. “I have a boyfriend; I hardly think however attractive you think you are makes any difference.”

“Well…the darkness does have its advantages,” his whispered again. And soon as I cringed away, his hands were on my face, pulling my mouth toward his. I felt goose-bumps erupt on my arms and shoulders when his hands trailed down them. His lips were warm and a little salty, but I could taste the alcohol on them. Not beer, thankfully, but something much sharper.

If I had a few shots of whatever he’d—whoever he was—drunk before I came in here, I probably wouldn’t have shoved his warm fingers away once they crept higher on my stomach. But of course, I don’t ingest too much alcohol at parties where the games take place, so I could keep my mind clear.

And surely enough, I’d need it crystal clear for tonight.

“Jeez,” I whipped the back of my hand across my mouth. “That can be considered assault you know! I said I have a boyfriend; I don’t want to participate in this silly game. No means no.”

“True, but it does not mean no while you were, just moments ago, lifting your hand up the back of my shirt and using the other to grab my neck and pull it closer to your mouth, not away,” he whispered into my ear and all while his lips swept back and forth across the skin on my neck, I failed not to shiver.

I took one and a half shaky steps backwards before banging my head on a precariously low—since I’m only 5’3”--bar. It caught me so off guard that I, just as balance challenged as always, fell backwards.

“Fuck!”

And after a second—while I started to scramble up and try to play off the fall as nonchalantly as I possibly could—I decided to stay down.

Please let him go away. Turn around, don’t look back, and leave me to this anger and embarrassment. I chanted this to no avail in my mind. Do you want to know how dark it is? I couldn’t even tell he was looming—and I do mean leaning way over, trying to figure out where I’d disappeared into—until he fell.

Yes, he fell on my small, frail, 5’3” body and I died. Well, not in the literal sense, but I could have died, the shock he gave me. I slapped my hand over my mouth and bit down to keep from screaming (it was best not to draw a crowd during this situation).

There was a muffled scuffle—me shoving at his wide, well-muscled, but not beefy chest (maybe a Soccer player? Or Water Polo?) And him taking his sweet time to lift himself up, though only his chest. One of his knees was bent, nestled between my legs, and the other on my left side.

“Umphhh! Get. Off. Of. Me!” I stage whispered. I had only one hand useful for shoving him off now, because my shirt decided that for today it would acquire the amazing ability to ride up and down at the same time.

“So, I’m guessing no does mean yes. Is that a correct assessment, babe,” he—whoever ‘he’ is—said. And while the fact that he had just called me babe distracted me from the imminent onslaught of kisses I should have known were coming—my skin was really starting to crawl now—I had no time to dodge his persistent mouth.

And, holy shit, did he kiss me! While I’m consistent in my belief that no means no, I can understand why he might have gotten a little confused. Because, when my back arched into him, after his fingers delicately held my face and kept me from turning away from him, I was totally sending mixed signals.

And when my hands started inching his shirt off his back, digging nails into his hot, hot skin, I was most definitely sending mixed signals. My mouth parted in a silent gasp, when he started kissing my neck—and what a hickey I’d have there in the morning—and I gripped his hips tighter.

Suddenly his skin was so hot and weight so stifling, I had to get out from under him. I used my other leg to shove his knee and he fell to the side. It didn’t take much really, until I we’d switched and I was on top, straddling him, breathing hard into his neck while he trailed soft kisses across my collarbone.

I think I must have sat on top of him, kissing him for—for ten minutes when his fingers slipped under my bra straps and began working at getting it off of me. And I—I was unbuttoning his pants!

All of the sudden, everything snapped into place. What the fuck was I doing, half-way to sleeping with this guy? And that was all I could call him too, just this guy. He may have had a way with his lips, and his hands too—let’s not forget those tightly coiled back muscles—but he could be a serial rapist for all I know.

Except I know my friends wouldn’t put me in here with someone they knew as dangerous. Still. This goes against all my values and morals; I had to get out of here.

“Holy shit,” I hissed and jumped up. I think I kneed him in the gut on my way up. I situated my shirt and pants and wrenched the door to the closet door open. Thank goodness, I thought, that people never kept many lights on at parties.

But there must have been a little light, because once I turned back, he was sitting up, shielding his eyes from the light, and I could finally see his face. That’s when my heart started pounding.

I made a quick escape to the bathroom, only about twenty feet away and punched the first number in my speed dial in once I’d locked the door.

“Emory-Chelsea-Cather, you better get in this bathroom within the next fifteen minutes, or—or, I don’t know but it won’t be fun!” I took one more heaving breath. “Bring everyone!”

I can’t believe them; putting me in a closet with Scott Davenport. I mean really, how could they. Scott, I’m-so-hot-and-popular-and-smart-and-all-girls-worship-me, Davenport! They will never be forgiven for this, never ever in a million years.

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A/N: This is a short chapter since it’s just the first. They’ll get much larger. I hope you like this. It took me forever to nail down the details for the game! I hope I explained everything correctly. Please review!