THE ALPHA'S BEAUTIFUL REJECT

8.A night of firsts

CHAPTER EIGHT

A NIGHT OF FIRSTS

Everything around me is moving in slow motion; lazy, smooth, and dreamlike. There's a warm, pulsing energy bubbling inside me, a need to move, to dance, and it's rushing through my veins like electricity. It's rising, swirling upward, straight to my head, and I can’t hold it back. I don’t want to.

“I have no bloody idea what song this is, but I want to dance!” Jack yells into my ear, grinning like an i***t. Strangely, it doesn’t bother me. His voice, the noise, the chaos; none of it does.

“We’re drunk and I want to dance too!” I shout back, louder than necessary, but it feels right. Everything feels right.

We're leaning against the balcony railing, swaying slightly as we look down at the packed living room below. The crowd is a blur of movement of people laughing, dancing, shouting lyrics they only half-know. The lights flicker like stars trapped inside, and everyone looks like they’re glowing.

So this is what it feels like to be drunk.

It’s not terrifying. It’s not overwhelming. It’s kind of... magical.

For my first high school party, this isn't going nearly as badly as I imagined. Actually, it might be better than I ever thought possible.

There's music reverberating through the walls and into my chest, and without even realizing it, I'm moving with the rhythm, swaying, twisting, laughing. In my head, I’m convinced I could out-dance Michael Jackson himself. Reality, of course, is a whole other story. I’m probably flailing like a half-broken wind-up toy for all I could know. But I don’t care. I’m not embarrassed. I’m not shrinking into myself the way I usually do. So why am I not spooked? Why don’t I feel awkward or inferior, like I always assumed I would?

“I thought I might find you here,” a voice says, snapping me back into the moment.

Mateo Ortega.

He’s leaning casually against the doorway to the balcony, one leg crossed over the other, a blue party cup dangling from his hand like it belongs there. The porch light behind him casts a halo around his curls, and that smile, God, that smile, is doing unforgivable things to my brain. He looks like he stepped out of a movie, or maybe Olympus itself. And he's looking right at me like there aren’t other people on the balcony.

“You’re staring,” Jack leans in and mumbles, or at least tries to. It’s hard to tell with the music and the alcohol in my system.

I turn toward him, press my lips against his ear, and whisper, “He is so f*****g good-looking.”

Jack snorts, but before either of us can say more, Mateo steps forward.

“Alright, it’s clear you two are drunk,” he says with a smirk that lands somewhere between amused and exasperated. He crosses the distance between us in a few easy strides and gently takes my hand. His palm is so f*****g warm.

“Let’s get you some water.”

And just like that, I’m following him, hand in his, heart racing, legs slightly wobbly. I can’t tell if it’s the alcohol or just the feeling of Mateo’s fingers wrapped around mine that’s making everything feel so electric. Probably both. Who knows at this point?

Jack trails behind us, far more composed than I am. Somehow, he's walking like a sober chaperone, while I feel like I'm floating.

The kitchen is completely empty, which surprises me. A party this big usually means people swarming every surface, grabbing snacks, raiding the fridge, spilling things. But not here. It remains spotless, nothing out of sorts.

Mateo must have caught the puzzled look on my face because, as he’s bent over rummaging through the fridge, he glances back at me with a grin.

“Brian always makes sure the kitchen’s off-limits,” he says with a shrug, emerging with a cold bottle of water.

He pops the cap and pours the water into three glasses like he’s done this a dozen times before. The way he moves, so effortlessly casual, makes it hard to look away. That is why I’m certain my crush on him is never going to go away. Especially if he keeps being this nice to me.

“Smart move,” I say, taking the glass from him.

He raises his own in a small toast, then flashes me that signature, unfairly beautiful smile. “Oh, and… happy birthday, Amber Butler.”

The way he says my full name sends a weird flutter through my stomach. Before I can fully process that, he adds, “And, uh… I got you something. It’s nothing big.”

I blink. “What? You don’t even know me.”

My words come out too fast, too unfiltered, classic alcohol bypassing any sort of brain-to-mouth protocol. But in all honest, this is the most he has ever spoken to me.

He laughs, clearly amused. “You live across the street from me,” he says, as if that explains everything.

Which… maybe it does?

Then, like it’s no big deal, he reaches behind the kitchen counter and pulls out a small white box. He opens it slowly, revealing a perfectly frosted strawberry cake, delicate and pink, with tiny edible flowers decorating the edges and my name on it.

“I remembered you and your friend yelling about strawberry being your favorite,” Mateo says, rubbing the back of his neck, a little sheepishly. “It was a while back, when he was over at your place. Thin walls… or maybe I just have werewolf hearing. I may have overheard.”

For a second, I just stand there. My mouth opens, then closes again, like my brain can’t quite catch up to the moment. There’s a tightness in my chest, warm and unfamiliar but not in a bad way. Just in that strange, breathless way when someone does something so unexpectedly thoughtful, it almost short-circuits your ability to respond.

“Thank you,” I whisper. My voice is smaller than I expected, and suddenly, I feel like I’m two seconds from crying.

Jack, ever the realist, squints at Mateo with the full force of his suspicion. “Wait, hold up.” He takes a step forward. “Mateo, you’re one of the most popular guys in school. You never said a word to either of us until yesterday. Then suddenly you invite us to some invite-only party and you’ve got a whole birthday cake hidden in the kitchen with Amber’s name on it?” He folds his arms. “I don’t buy it. What is this really about?”

I glance at Jack, and even though part of me wants to shush him, I get it. We’ve spent most of high school being invisible at best, targets at worst. Skepticism is just self-defense at this point. Goddess knows I should be on high alert right now too.

Mateo sighs and holds up his hands in surrender. “Listen, I know that-”

But he doesn’t get to finish. The kitchen door swings open with force, and Brian walks in, his jaw tight and his eyes stormy. He freezes when he sees us, takes in the scene. From the cake, the glasses of water then lastly at me. Then he sighs and slumps onto one of the stools like he’s just aged ten years in five seconds.

“Hey, Amber,” he says tiredly, then gives Jack a small nod. “Jack.”

Jack lifts a brow but says nothing.

“What’s got you all pissed off?” Mateo asks, already bracing for the answer.

“Some freshman puked on the carpet upstairs,” Brian groans. “My mom’s going to murder me.”

Then his eyes fall on the cake, this time clearly reading the name on top. His frown deepens, a shadow crossing his expression.

“Does Theo know you’re doing this?” he asks, tone suddenly sharp.

Mateo’s whole body seems to tighten. His jaw locks, and when he speaks, his voice is low and hard, “And he doesn’t have to know.”

The air in the kitchen thickens with that sentence, and I suddenly feel the invisible weight of something I wasn’t aware of until now; something bigger than a party, bigger than a cake.

There’s history here.

And apparently, secrets too.