“Sometimes you have to simplify things when talking to dumbasses.”
“Look. I’m used to dealing with you being prickly, Pax, but this is beyond the pale. Can we just call a truce for the night? I’m sorry I was worried about you. I’m sorry I came to find you. Fuck, I’m sorry for all of it. I promise you, I’ll go back to the academy in the morning and I won’t bother you again.”
He works his jaw, glowering at me. “All right. Fine. Have fun with the bartender.”
“I will.”
Speaking of the bartender—he returns with our drinks just in time. Pax snatches his rum and coke up and downs it in one go, slams the empty glass back down on the bar top, gives me one last disgusted look and then bails into the crowd.
“Yeesh. Lover’s tiff?”
I look at the bartender. “What do you call an enemy’s tiff?” I ask him wearily.
“I think that’s just an argument, sweetheart.”
Wren and Elodie are on the dance-floor when I find them. I wouldn’t have pegged Wren as a dancer—he seems way too serious for that—but the guy can actually move. I get Elodie’s attention and yell into her ear, letting her know that I’m going to post up and find somewhere to sit down while they dance. She tells me to stay and dance with them, but there is literally nothing worse than trying to bop to music while the couple you’re with are grinding on each other so suggestively that they could charge people to watch.
Heading down a level, I find a sunken seating area close to another bar and order myself another drink. I can see Elodie and Wren from my vantage point, just about, so I sit and watch them, sipping aggressively on my third margarita.
“This seat taken, beautiful?”
I look up at the guy gesturing to the spot next to me, doing everything in my power not to groan at the absurdity of his question. “Yeah, it’s taken.” I’m curt as hell. I bite on the end of my straw, looking off into the crowd of people on the dance floor, trying to find Elodie again.
“Really? ’Cause…” Rando dude chuckles in a way that other girls must find charming. “It doesn’t look taken to me.”
I quit gnawing on my straw and shove it back into my margarita. “It doesn’t?”
“No. I mean…there’s no one sitting there right now.”
“That you can see.”
“What?” Bless his little cotton socks, he looks so confused.
“There’s no one sitting there right now that you can see. My grandmother was my best friend. I take her with me everywhere now. She’s non-corporeal, but in today’s age that’s not really an issue. Unless…” I jerk back, placing a shocked hand on my chest. “Wait. You’re not prejudice against the dead, are you?”
“Uhhh…” He looks around, first left and then right, but whoever he’s looking for (maybe my fake dead grandma?) is nowhere to be seen. “Are you serious?”
“Of course. Can you actually move a little to the left? Please? Yeah, that’s right. You’re blocking her view. She likes to watch people dance. It’s one of her things.”
“Okay. You’re fucking with me.” He sounds a little irritated now. Also, a little drunk, which I’ve only just noticed. Not ideal. Drunk people’s brains work slower than those of sober people. “It’s not nice to mess with people, dude.”
“I’m not your dude. Look, can you please just go? I’m having a pretty shitty night, and you’re upsetting Grandma.”
“Will you at least let me buy you a drink?”
Wow. He really isn’t getting the picture. Throwing myself back into my seat, I let out a frustrated, “Urgh! No! No, thank you. I don’t want you to buy me a drink!”
“Huh.” The guy hawks like he might spit. “No wonder you’re sitting by yourself. Has anyone ever told you that you’re a raging bitch?”
He hurls this insult like it might be the worst thing anyone’s ever said to me. Like drunk guys haven’t been calling the girls who reject them bitches since the dawn of time. Perhaps flat-out laughing at him isn’t the best response I can muster, but it’s all this motherfucker is getting.
I drain my margarita and grab another drink, returning to the same spot on the sunken couch. From time to time, I catch sight of Wren and Elodie on the dance floor, their bodies swaying and moving in unison.
An hour passes. I decide to cut out the middleman and ditch the margarita mix, opting for straight tequila instead. When I get up to go to the bathroom, the warehouse pitches, seesawing wildly, and the alcohol hits me all at once.
Whoa ho ho! Jesus. I am drunk.
It’s a weird kind of drunk, though. I’m body drunk. My heart pumps like a piston, keeping beat with the thumping music, and my arms and legs feel numb. But my head feels oddly clear. My thoughts flow smoothly. Sharp. I observe myself, weaving to the women’s restrooms, bumping my hips on the corners of tables and tripping over my own feet, with a detached, indifferent amusement. Man, it’s been a while since I’ve been this tipsy. A grim truth settles over me, as I shove the bathroom door open too hard, sending it crashing into the wall: I am going to be hungover as fuck tomorrow.
Nothing to be done about it now. Peering into the streaked, filthy mirror above the sinks, I glower at the girl with the tousled red hair staring back at me, irritated as fuck with her.
Hey eyeliner’s smudged. Her cheeks are flushed red, and her pupils are twin black holes, unfocused and massive.
“This is all your fault, y’know?” I tell her. “You’re smarter than this. You should have shut this down a long time ago.”
She blinks slowly, too wasted to come up with a fitting response. The dress Elodie loaned me hugs my form tightly. The sheer panel at the front hints at my stomach and hips. It’s very short, the fabric grazing the tops of my thighs. It’s a far cry from what I would have chosen to wear tonight, had I packed knowing we’d be going out, but I’ll admit that it does look good. I look good. The bangles at my wrists, hiding my scars, clatter together as I sweep my hair back from my forehead, puffing out my cheeks. “You’re fucking great, Presley. Fucking great. Really hot, too. He’s mad for not wanting you—”
A stall door behind me swings open, and a tall girl with flawless brown skin and long braids steps out, snapping open her purse. In a black body suit and sky-high heels, she’s absolutely stunning. “Now that’s the fucking truth,” she says, looking me up and down. “You’re gorgeous, sweetheart. Tell me you’re not about to cry over some dumbass boy. Please. I cannot handle another beautiful girl crying in a nightclub bathroom over a guy who doesn’t deserve her.”
“Don’t worry. I’m not gonna cry.” I laugh shakily, but when I flick my gaze back to my reflection, I see how wet and shiny my eyes are and realize that I just lied to a perfect stranger. “Oh fuck. I am, aren’t I?”
The girl chuckles under her breath as she stands next to me, rooting through her purse. “Whatever he’s done…or not done,” she says. “It doesn’t matter. You’re in charge of your happiness. You decide what fills you with joy or what makes your heart hurt. You give him power when you let his actions cause you pain.”