It did not look remotely like a place that might host a party. It looked like a place old ladies might go to die and remain undiscovered until the neighbors noticed a strange smell.
Ronan slammed his locker. He had not put anything in it and had no reason to open or close it, but he liked the satisfying bang of the metal down the hall, the way it drowned out the announcements. He did it again for good measure.
Ronan Lynch’s stare was a snake on the sidewalk where you wanted to walk. It was a match left on your pillow. It was pressing your lips together and tasting your own blood.
Blue headed towards the kitchen and Ronan jogged on ahead of her, jostling her intentionally with his hip. “You asshole,” she said, and he laughed merrily.