The bartender leans in close when I order, his voice dipping into that raspy, just-finished-a-cigarette kind of tone. “Three shots of Clase Azul. Keep ’em coming?”
I nod, winking as I blow him a kiss like the skank I am.
Amelia stares at me with her tattooed arms crossed andher brows furrowed, radiating that concerned big sister energy that makes my skin itch.
“Bitch,” I say, raising an eyebrow. “He’s hot. And it’s good tequila. What’s the problem?” I laugh, nudging her side, expecting her to crack a smile.
Her green eyes meet my gaze. “Cat,” she says softly, “I’m worried about you.”
Just like that, my bubble pops.
She doesn’t yell. She doesn’t accuse. She speaks the truth.
“Your spending. The drinking. These constant trips to run from your grief. It’s starting to scare me.” Her voice breaks a little as she says it. “Your mom–”
The second Amelia mentions my mom, something inside me snaps, anger bubbling in my throat.
“Don’t you dare bring her up.”
Amelia doesn’t argue. She lifts her hands in surrender, the same way she always does when I’m teetering too close to the edge. She takes her shot without another word, hooking her arm through Layla’s. They both wince as the tequila goes down, laughter bubbling between them a moment later.
Meanwhile, I’m fucking spiraling. What’s new?
My fingers fumble inside my clutch until they find what I’m looking for. The tiny bottle is cool in my palm, familiar like muscle memory. I twist the cap and tap a single white rectangle into my hand, as I grip the little white pill and pop it onto my tongue. Grabbing the shot off the bar counter, I throw it back. The burn of the clear liquor chasing it down my throat is sharp and satisfying, like punishment and comfort in one brutal hit. My phone starts to buzz, so I choose to ignore it and take another shot.
Shit, this feels so fucking good.
Buzz. Buzz. Buzz.
Oh my god, so fucking annoying. I sigh, pulling it out, squinting against the bright screen until the blur sharpens.
Daddy
Answer your fucking phone, Catalina.
Daddy
Why is there a fucking charge for $278,000 for one night?
Daddy
You better get your ass home right fucking now.
Well, fuck me.
I tuck the phone back in my clutch, pretending the fire crawling up my spine is excitement and not fear. Amelia and Layla are still in their own little universe.
I roll my eyes as I tap their shoulders, and when they turn, their eyes are glassy and red, faces flushed from countless tequila shots.
“You guys,” I start, barely holding in the panic. “We need to fly back to Los Angeles. Like... right fucking now. My dad just texted and lost his shit. Apparently, I spent toomuchmoney for one night.”
Layla gasps dramatically, clutching her pearls, or at least the neckline of her dress. Amelia chokes on her laugh. Then they both loseit—bent over the bar, screeching like apes, drawing stares from strangers who probably think we’re crazy.
They have the fucking the audacity to laugh at me right now.
“We told you your reckless spending would catch up eventually.” Amelia cackles, tears in her eyes as she leans on Layla.
I narrow my eyes, lips twitching even though I want to strangle them both with my perfectly manicured hands.
