He grins. “Buckle up, baby girl.”
The driveto Nashville is a blur of wind, glitter, and Layla screeching the lyrics to every single song like an actual hyena.
Maverick’s behind the wheel, hyping himself up with one hand on the wheel and the other gesturing like he’s conducting an invisible orchestra. Amelia’s in the passenger seat, pretending not to enjoy the way his knee keeps brushing against hers. I’m in the backseat, half lying across Layla’s lap and trying not to spill my emergency flask.
Carter’s following behind us in his truck, probably regretting how his night is turning out, but also too stubborn to leave us alone in a city with his idiot brother.
We pull up to VYCE, and the line wraps around the block. There’s a girl wearing fishnets, a tiara, and sobs into a vape. A man in a fur coat is juggling LED glow balls, and someone’s doing pushups in the parking lot and yelling “NO THOUGHTS, JUST VYCE” like it’s a religion.
It’s fucking perfect.
The second Maverick steps out of the SUV, all hell breaks loose.
“Oh my God, it’s him!”
“MAVERICK HAYES!”
“MARRY ME!”
Phones flash. Girls scream. Someone throws a rhinestone-encrusted bra at him, smacking him in the face, and he catches it and gives us a smirk.
“You’re welcome,” he says with a wink.
I nearly choked on my saliva.
“I can’t believe this idiot is famous,” Amelia mutters, her tattooed arms crossed.
“Yeah, well,” Carter says, appearing at my side like a pissed-off shadow, “he is.”
Layla’s already posing in front of the neon VYCE sign, flipping her hair and shouting, “GET IN LOSERS, WE’RE MAKING BAD DECISIONS!”
“Ma’am, are you okay?” a bouncer asks as she air-guitars to absolutely nothing.
“She’s just… expressive,” I say, grabbing her arm and spinning her toward the entrance.
Maverick high-fives the bouncer and mutters something about “Tennessee Mustangs MVP,” and just like that, we’re waved past the line.
Inside, VYCE is a sensory overload. The bass hits low and filthy through the speakers, giving me chills with every drop. Lights flash in technicolor streaks across the crowd, fog pumps from the corners of the room, and glitter floats in the air like confetti. The music isn’t just loud, it’s alive, thumping beneath my feet, in my chest, and behind my eyes.
We move as a unit through the crowd, a cluster of hot, feral energy.
Layla finds the center of the dance floor and immediately starts headbanging like she’s been possessed by a demon in platform boots. Her ponytail flailing around like a safety hazard.
“I love us!!!” she screams.
Amelia and I throw ourselves into the beat, grinding, laughing, and singing lyrics half-wrong but full-volume. Her arm loops around my shoulders as we sway, twist, and shout.
“I’m gonna need someone to carry me out of here whenwe leave,” I yell in Amelia’s ear, throwing my arms around her neck.
She smirks. “Bitch, I know you mean you want Carter’s hands all over you.”
I scoff. “Please. He fucking wishes.”
Carter
Layla’s already in the middle of it, headbanging and screaming lyrics with her tongue out like she’s performing an exorcism. Maverick trails after Amelia like a lovesick puppy, that goofy smile on his face like she didn’t just roll her eyes at him five seconds ago.
None of that fucking matters.
