Chapter 8: Everybody Loves a Party

Jareth was there in the next room, bending knowledgeably over the pool table with a cue in his hands. Sarah caught her breath at the sight of him. He looked similar to the way he had looked that afternoon, but just different enough so she couldn't take her eyes off him. It was an affliction shared by most of the girls in the room, she realized, as first one girl then another approached him with flirtatious smiles. His nondescript opponent they left alone.

His hair was much shorter and spiked on top. He still had his black leather gloves on (there was a smudge of blue chalk on one of them), but now he wore black jeans and black boots, a burgundy button-down shirt. Sarah glanced down at herself and recognized that, somehow or other, he had dressed to match her own outfit. "Wicked man," she muttered, lips curving in a rueful smile.

As if he had heard her, his head swivelled up and he gave her a long, searching look. Then, straight-faced, he winked at her and turned his attention back to the table. Sarah shook her head and wandered over to the snack table. She ate a couple of pretzels to kill some time. Someone shoved a cup of beer into her hand, and she took a cautious sip. She made a face. Nope, still nasty. No matter how many times Paris assured her that beer was the nectar of the gods, Sarah was sure the real nectar of the gods was a Toasted Almond instead, or maybe a Frozen Mudslide. She knew she'd never develop a taste for beer, and she couldn't afford the decent wine and expensive mixed drinks that she did enjoy.

Thinking of Paris, Sarah was surprised when she turned back and saw her roommate talking to Jareth. Talking to, and practically wrapped around, she amended. Jareth had absently put his arm around her, but his attention was still completely focused on the game of pool. Sarah stifled her giggle, now knowing his passionate love of games. She could have told Paris that he wouldn't be interested in her while there was some sort of competition going on!

Paris, bored with Jareth's inattention,slouched her shoulder down so that his hand slid naturally down onto her breast.

That got his attention. He let go immediately and backed away from Paris with contempt on his face. He said something cutting to her that Sarah couldn't hear, but it made Paris' eyes widen. Eyes flashing, Jareth dropped the cue stick in disgust and walked away abruptly.

Paris drifted over to where Sarah was leaning against the snack table. "What the hell are you doing here? Thought you were gonna be boring and do homework all night."

"Changed my mind," Sarah said lightly. "Thought I might meet someone interesting."

Paris scoffed. "Steer clear of that blond guy with the gloves. He's pretty, but he's awful bitchy."

Sarah chuckled at this description of the Goblin King. "Maybe he prefers more of a challenge," she said.

Paris glared at her, knowing Sarah had seen Jareth's disdainful rejection of Paris' advances. "Maybe I should introduce him to you, then," she said cuttingly. "But a guy that hot wouldn't want a boring old drudge."

Sarah shrugged, flushing,but suddenly Jareth was there with a casual hand on Paris' shoulder, gently nudging her out of his way. "So, Paris, who's your friend?" he asked, his eyes drinking in the sight of Sarah, who stood tall and poised in the midst of all the activity and blaring music. He flashed Sarah a devastating smile.

"Oh, it's just myold roommate," Paris sniffed, making one last-ditch effort entice the exciting blond stranger to fix on herself instead. "She's having delusions of youth tonight, I guess. This is Sarah Williams, and this is Jared Something-or-other." Paris had already had a few drinks.

"Nice to meet you," Sarah said, holding out her hand for him to shake.

Instead of shaking it, though, he tucked it firmly under his arm and began to lead her away, turning his back onParis. "The pleasure is mine. So you're having delusions of youth, are you?" he teased.

Sarah shrugged.

He grinned. "So am I, and I'm much older than you. Care to dance?" He led her towards the dance floor.

Fret not, Solea, no one is drunk and jealous except for Paris. ;)