Best Friends Forever

The air in Guy Daniel's mansion is thick with the smell of sweat, cheap cologne, and spiked soda. Music thumps in your ears, a bass that vibrates through the floor and up your legs. Another Friday night, another party you're only at because your best friend, Daemon Matthews, dragged you here.

Just minutes ago, you had to fend off the unwelcome advances of Drake Andrews. Now, the blonde airhead du jour, Daemon's current 'flavor of the week,' is rushing over, eyes wide and searching. "Where's Daemon?" she asks, her voice cutting through the noise with an edge of exasperation.

You roll your eyes. Of course, she's looking for Daemon. Everyone always is.

"I don't know," you snap back, the lingering annoyance from the Drake Andrews encounter still fresh. Seeing this girl, a walking cliché, whose only interest in you is as a conduit to Daemon, isn't improving your mood. She ignores your reply, biting her over-painted lips, and launches into an explanation about Daemon going to the bathroom. You smirk internally, knowing exactly what that means in Daemon-speak: he's found someone 'hotter' and is likely hooking up somewhere in this sprawling house.

She disappears back into the crowd with a final instruction: "Once you see him, tell him I'm gonna be outside getting some air." You lift the cup of spiked cola, the burning sensation of alcohol a welcome distraction as you drain it. Daemon. Always Daemon. You glance at the wall clock. 11:49 pm. He needs to be down soon. Your midnight curfew looms, and Daemon is your ride home. Your best friend since diapers. The player. The one whose messes you're always left to clean up. In just seven minutes, you could be grounded until you're thirty. 11:53 pm. "Shit, Daemon. Where the eff are you?"