I shower quickly, reluctant to scrub Griffin's scent from my skin. I don't have time to wash and dry my hair, so I pin it up, and once my body's dry, I catch a faint whiff of his cologne in my hair. It makes me smile, thinking about how much he loves my hair.

When I slip into my restaurant uniform, putting one leg into my pants and then another, I'm acutely aware of the ache in my muscles and the friction of fabric against my skin. I've spent all weekend either in little filmy dresses, a bikini or nothing at all.

I've never been much of an athlete, but my legs and arms feel heavy from exertion and my skin feels unfamiliar encased in clothing. Griffin had so ravaged me over the weekend that it's as if my body belongs to someone else, someone who moves differently.

And all I want now is to sleep. With him next to me.

Or, at the very least, flee this apartment. I must confront my brother on the way out, and my chest constricts at the thought.

Looking into the full-length mirror in the bedroom, I scrape my hair into a severe ponytail, and pull the neck of the shirt down to look at the hickey. I reach for my concealer, and attempt to cover the mark by slathering on the waxy substance. The hickey is deep purple, like a winter sunset. Griffin had given it to me overnight, when we'd turned to each other in a half sleep.

I can't get enough of you, Juliette. Your skin, I love your skin...

He'd bitten my neck and when I cried out, he'd soothed the sting with his tongue. Whispered an apology in that low murmur of his.

Did I hurt you? I'm sorry, angel. Or do you like when I bite you?

I whimpered something that sounded like yes, I like it so much, because nothing he did hurt. Far from it. That led to him kissing the spot. Then sucking. Then biting, hard, again. As if he couldn't control himself from marking me.

A mark of lust.

The way he calls me angel.

The memory of it all makes me shimmer with heat and yearning, sending me off balance. The feeling is so intense I grab onto the footboard. The phantom sensation leaves me unsteady. It's been what, twelve hours since that moment in the dark? I can feel his mouth on my skin, even now.

Even here in my bedroom, knowing that my brother's out in the kitchen, slamming cabinet doors, waiting to yell at me. If I could only slip out a window or something. Talking to Ashton might shatter the memory of the weekend. Might bring back my doubts and fears.

Just thinking of Griffin's strong body atop mine in the darkness, of his low groans, of the way he clenched a fistful of my hair, sends a flood of wetness between my legs. I'd rather think of that. And of the way he'd seemed so desperate for me.

How am I going to get through the next few minutes? The next few hours at the restaurant? The rest of my life?

I pick up my phone, hoping he's texted. He hasn't, and I realize he's probably still in the car. My thumbs hover over a message, but I don't know what to type.

I'm sorry that my brother caused a scene in the parking lot

I miss you

Please come and take me away from all of this?

No. I can't bring myself to send any message. God, I'm pathetic. All of those are inappropriate at best and desperate at worst. I might not be experienced with guys, but I'm pretty sure I shouldn't beg a man I just slept with to come and carry me off into the sunset.

And besides, given all he'd told me, is that what I really want?

Steeling myself with a deep breath, I fling open the door. Ash is sitting in the living room and his eyes practically shoot flames at me. My gaze lands on a pile of boxes I hadn't noticed when I walked in because I was too angry with Ash.

"What are those for?" I point.

Ash clears his throat. "I'll explain later. Or mom will. When do you get home? Are you coming home? Or is your boyfriend picking you up in his half-million dollar car?"

I roll my eyes and ignore him and walk to the door, grabbing the keys from a hook on the wall.

"Juliette, we're going to need to talk about him at some point."

I don't turn around, but I freeze. Ash's voice is pure ice. He's right. "I'm on my way to work. Be home at nine-thirty."

"I'm going to tell mom that you were with Griffin all weekend. She needs to know you lied to her."

I whirl around. "I didn't lie. I said I'd be with friends. I'm eighteen and I can do what I want. She said as much."

"She assumed you were with Allison."

I roll my eyes. "Ash, what does it matter?"

"It matters because he's a drug dealer."

I have no logical comeback to that, so I yank the door open and leave.

I'm sitting in my living room, deep into my favorite racing videogame — Forza Motorsport — when my sister calls. Swearing, I pause the game and pick up one of the three phones on the sofa cushion next to me, the one dedicated for my sister's calls. Well, and Juliette's, too.

I don't say hello. "What's wrong?" My sister always texts, never calls.

"Where are you? Are you on your way?"

"I got caught up in something." I don't want to admit that instead of going to a killer EDM show in Miami this month — a big DJ from Sweden's headlining — I'm waiting to hear from Juliette. We'd texted for a while after she got home from work, and then she had to go because her mother and brother wanted to talk with her. Most likely they'll try to convince her not to see me, and I'm bracing for that.

To distract myself, I've been gaming for the last hour.

I yawn loudly. "Dunno, I'm kinda sleepy."

"You need to get down here, now. It's really important, Griff. Call when you park and I'll tell you where to meet me."

She hangs up and I frown. What the fuck?

A check of the time reveals that it's eleven at night. I wonder what's going on with Juliette, and why Zoe's being so cryptic. There was an edge in her voice that I haven't heard in a while.

I slip on a pair of jeans, a T-shirt and sneakers and head out. The concert's not on the beach; it's on the mainland at The Mutiny, a big club in Wynwood, the city's latest hipster neighborhood. It's the largest club in the area, and draws hot electronic music acts and thousands of partiers. Even on a Sunday. Especially on a Sunday when a Grammy-nominated DJ spins.

The streets are empty as I cruise over the bridge, the downtown skyline twinkling in the distance. My mind's still on Juliette, hoping she's okay. Hoping her brother isn't giving her a hard time. Just the thought sends a surge of anger through me — but I also understand that all he wants is the best for her.

If only there was some way I could sit with him and explain everything. Now that we're adults, maybe he'll understand...

I turn onto the street where The Mutiny's located. This part of town used to be filled with beat-up warehouses, junk cars and prostitutes. Now it's all warehouse clubs with multi-million overhauls, more Italian supercars than on the streets of Rome and escorts who charge three grand a night for the pleasure of being in their company.

Tonight, the entire street is blocked off, and my stomach tenses when I see an officer directing traffic. In the distance, about a half block away in front of the club, flashing blue and red lights slice through the dark Miami sky.

"Oh, fuck," I mutter as the cop waves me along.

I park several streets over, in front of a restaurant called Brunch Bitch. Years ago, this building used to be a tire place owned by a Puerto Rican dude. I only remember this because he had great deals on tires and I used to come here when I was poor. Now it's where people eat $12 avocado toast and drink artisan kombucha.

While walking fast toward the club, I dial Zoe. She answers on the first ring.

"I just parked. Where are you?"

"The Electric Kumquat."

"Jesus, what? Where do you find these places?" Even though she's been back in Miami a month, she already knows all the hot new spots. I'm obviously aging out, and fast.

"It's around the corner from The Mutiny. It's a kava bar, the one with karaoke. Next to that upcycled clothing shop I took you to the other week."

I roll my eyes. Everything here has become so gimmicky. "I remember. Be there in five."

This had better be important. But when I catch another glimpse of the police and ambulance lights, I decide it probably is. At least Zoe's out of the club and okay. At least I hope she is.

I try not to show any emotion when I open the door to the bar. This isn't actually a traditional bar, not in the way I'm used to. There's no booze here. The place sells kava, a narcotic sedative made from the crushed roots of a plant grown in Tonga or Bali or some far flung tropical island.

Some people say it's medicinal and herbal and others say it's like valium in liquid form. I think it might all be new age bullshit, but people are making bank. It's legal here in Florida, and places are popping up all over. I'd thought of buying a bar myself, but the possibility that kava could be made illegal at any second by some overzealous politicians cooled me on the idea.

Zoe loves the shit, though, and she's a good judge of what's hot. So maybe I should buy a kava bar — especially now that I see how packed this one is.

I spot her across the room in the corner, on a threadbare sofa. Two guys have pulled up chairs and they look entirely too douchey and too eager for my taste, at least where my sister's concerned.

This scene is the opposite of what I grew up with — instead of electronic dance music, Led Zeppelin's playing. Instead of strobe lights, I see a lava lamp. I catch a whiff of patchouli, and a blonde in a filmy pink dress beams dreamily at me. It's like 1968 in here.

I sit next to Zoe and fix a hard stare on the fuckboys sitting near her. They leave to their feet and mumble goodbyes. Even though many in Miami don't know me personally, lots of people know my reputation. By the startled looks in their eyes, I'd say they know who I am.

And my presence is all it takes to command respect in situations like this.

"What's going on?" My eyes land on a recycled wood shelf, where a row of glass mason jars sit empty. There's also a stuffed crow. I roll my eyes. So fucking hipster fake.

Zoe takes a sip of a murky brown liquid inside what appears to be a coconut shell. "A ton of people at the show are being taken to the hospital. Kids. High schoolers."

I frown. "A ton, meaning how many?"

"Thirty? Forty? I flirted with one of the cops and he told me that Miami General's declared a level two trauma incident because of the people coming in."

"Coming in from what?" My stomach feels like it's filled with cement as I stare at a scruffy dog sleeping near someone's dirty sneakers at a nearby table.

Zoe leans in. "Rumor has it that there's a bad batch of Molly going around. Possibly cut with Special K."

Oh fuck. Ketamine. A fucking anesthetic that can send users into permanent night-night.

She must see the panic flash in my eyes because she follows up quickly with, "But it was also hotter than hell in there and you know kids when they go to their first show and start drinking and dancing."

"You weren't holding, were you? Or doing anything?" Zoe isn't supposed to handle the pills herself, but I know occasionally she gives a few to her friends. And takes them from time to time.

She shakes her head and holds up her coconut shell. "I didn't bring anything with me tonight. This is the only substance I've had tonight other than water."

I run a hand through my hair. "Do you think it's ours?"

"Dunno. It could be. That new supplier from China."

"I thought we'd tested that." I stare at her and she's chewing on her cheek. She's taken charge of the new product since coming back to Miami.

"Well, I didn't test it myself, not exactly."

I gape at her and lean in. "You let them tell you it was okay?" By them, I mean the two guys we use to package the raw chemicals into pills. Matthew and I used to do it ourselves, but the business got too big, and last year, we outsourced to Matthew's cousins. I trust them, to a point. As much as I trust most people, which isn't saying much.

The only people who should be testing the chemicals for purity are Matthew, Zoe or me.

"Ethan and Juan said everything was fine."

I swear and scrub my hands over my face. In all the years I've been selling, I've never had an incident. Sure, a kid here or there will end up in the ER, but usually that's from mixing molly with coke or heroin or a dozen shots of fireballs. I've never put a batch of drugs out on the street that would sicken dozens of people.

Or kill them.

____