Best Friends with the Player ✔️ (The Player #1)

The thumping bass vibrated through Santana’s bones, a relentless rhythm mirroring the throbbing ache in her head. The party at Guy Daniel's mansion was in full swing, a chaotic symphony of laughter, spilled drinks, and the faint, sweet scent of spiked cola.

"Where's Daemon?" The question, shrill and exasperated, cut through the din. It was the blonde airhead, a cliché popular girl who seemed to materialize out of the crowd, her eyes wide with a desperate search.

Santana stifled an eye-roll. Did she seriously have to ask? Drake Andrews's lingering touch still made her skin crawl, and this girl’s predictable query was doing nothing to improve her mood. "I don't know," she snapped, taking a long swig of her drink, the burning sensation of alcohol a welcome distraction.

The blonde ignored her, as always. "He said he was going to the bathroom," she murmured, biting her overly painted rose-red lips. Santana smirked. She knew this dance. Daemon had spotted someone 'hotter,' feigned a bathroom trip, and was now undoubtedly engaged in some illicit hook-up.

"Once you see him, tell him I'm gonna be outside getting some air," the girl announced, dissolving back into the swirling mass of bodies.

Santana sighed, her gaze drifting to the sleek stainless-steel wall clock: 11:49 pm. Daemon was her ride. And she had a midnight curfew. She took another gulp, the cola burning a path down her throat. "Daemon, Daemon, Daemon. What am I gonna do with you?"