“So uh... can we go, Keysha?” I ask again, trying to sound more coherent, but I swallow a burp.
“Sure,” Diego answersforher. “We’ll take you both back to my penthouse. Crash there for the night.”
Keysha lights up. “That sounds amazing.”
Then, quieter, leaning toward me, “We have nowhere else to stay anyway. It’s a two-hour drive and I’m drunk. You okay with that? They’ve got a pool, too!”
I nod. “I guess that sounds a lot safer than driving home drunk.”
Diego lifts both palms like he’s proving he’s harmless. “There’s plenty of space. You can have your own room.”
That settles it. I tip back my drink and down the rest.
“Alrighty. Lead the way!”
Jace takes my hand and I follow him like we’re good friends.
A half hour later, we step through the towering front doors of a sleek penthouse. Music pulses low and bassy. A dozen people chatter in small groups, laughing too loud, sipping their drinks like this is all normal.
It’s kind of a small party. But to me? It feels huge compared to Brax’s house parties. And everything is white. Blindingly white. The marble floors. The glossy counters. Even the furniture.
Why do rich people love white so much? It makes me feel... dirty.
I gawk at the floor-to-ceiling windows that stretch across the back wall, showing off the ocean. There’s a infinity pool outside on the gigantic balcony, glowing blue under the night sky.
Keysha bolts for it like it’s calling her name. She pulls off her dress mid-stride, revealing a black bra and thong underneath, and steps into the pool without hesitation. Not a drop touches her hair.
I blink. Once. Twice.
What is happening!
Diego strips down to his boxers and dives in. He swims to her, and within seconds, they’re making out!
My chest tightens.
Keysha always knows how to have fun, though.
I shift on my feet. Do... do I get in, too? I hope that isn’t the expectation.
Before I can think too hard, Jace slides an arm around my waist. “Want another drink?” he asks, voice smooth, like this is a date and not a make out session.
I nod eagerly, needing liquid courage.
He mixes me something pink-red. Vodka cranberry. Strong. It hits hard but I take another sip anyway.
He leads me to the balcony where a propane firepit flickers in the middle of a plush seating area. The cushions swallow me as I sink down beside him. Strangers are around us, laughing, vaping, tossing out jokes that I’m too drunk to catch.
I ramble something about music, or dancing, or how weird this all is — and they laugh. So I keep talking.
Then... His mouth is on mine.
Wet, sudden. His tongue is big and aggressive. My eyes widen in surprise, but I close them quickly and kiss him back. Because so what. Who cares.
I don’t feel butterflies, but maybe I’m not supposed to. That’s just in movies. That’s for immature girls who don’t know anything.
Not me.
Besides, the vodka numbs my nerves. His hands feel nice. The night air is cool. I’m buzzed and light. Like I’m not really here at all.
