We Own the Night

by Ashley Poston

  The article—We Are Golden—is cliché, but most exposés are. Out of the corner of my eye, Chuck rolls over in his chair and slowly gets up. His entire back is as red as a lobster, and by the way he waddles over toward the vacant chairs beside me he can feel it, too. His swim trunks are outrageous—neon yellow and green. Even if I was blind, I couldn’t miss him. I slap the magazine up so he won’t be tempted to stop for a nice chat.

  I try to read on, but I find myself flipping through the pages instead. There’s nothing in it I care about. Some film star got married this past weekend in Las Vegas, and Jason Dallas denied his rumored drug addiction again. I don’t see how Maggie can bring herself to care about people like them—privileged, stupid stars screwing their life up one arrest or failed marriage or nude photo at a time.

  Suddenly, fingers crawl over the top of my magazine and tilt it down, and I’m staring into the heart-shaped face of Darla. She gives me a sweet smile.

  “Darling, I need a favor.”

  So, that’s how I end up at the local stop-n-shop for the second evening in a row buying an economy pack of condoms. I don’t even get to change clothes first. Darla shoves me into her outrageous pink muumuu with a twenty-dollar bill, and hurries me on my way.

  Seriously, karma hates me. I’ve never bought condoms a day in my life. I’ve never even seen one before—the night with Caspian notwithstanding. In the store, everyone gives me a wide berth, probably scared that my bad mood is catching.

  Or maybe it’s because I look like an all-pink Candy Land reject.

  I snag the brand Darla wants and situate it in the nook of my arm so it doesn’t look too conspicuous. Who am I kidding? I look like I’m buying condoms. The box looks like condoms. It has latex written on the top for God’s sake. The only thing I can do is make a quick getaway, but that plan is soon foiled when I get to the checkout and every single cashier is, in classic fashion, is a man. Wonderful.

  Old guy with the off-center bald spot it is. I massage the bridge of my nose. The things I do for the change from a twenty-dollar bill. Is this even worth the change? I mean, seriously. Can’t Darla get her own condoms when she’s feeling frisky? At the very thought of Darla and some schmuck doing the old hoedown, I want to shove the condoms into the magazine rack by the register and head for the door.

  Behind me, a hand reaches over to pick up a Stars from the rack, and a light, caramel voice says, “’Packed on the Pounds’? That’s shitty Photoshop skills.”

  Goosebumps prickle up my arms. I know that voice. Maybe if I stay still, he won’t recognize me.

  Junebug, you have pink hair. Like hell he won’t.

  “Oh brah, not as photoshopped as that meat-alicious burger. What is that, a Godzilla-Mac?” Another guy laughs. Great, he has a friend this time, who squats down beside me and snags a Cosmo. He has a ridiculous aquamarine mohawk and so many earrings it looks like he has ear armor—wait.

  Aquamarine...mohawk?

  “Ooh! This one’s better. How to do a pedi at home. Man, pedis are the shit. I had one done in Santa Monica that one time and my feet felt like holy baptized shit for the rest of the week.”

  I tilt my head slightly to sneak a peek out of my curtain of hair. Aquamarine mohawk, earring affinity, kilt, combat boots—I might be a bad Roman Holiday fan, but I know Boaz Alexander when I see him. Beside him is my nightmare from last night—tattoos, soda pop orange hair, emerald eyes.

  And, if that’s Boaz Alexander then...

  Oh, shit.

  “Did they scrub the fungus off too?” snickers the tattooed jerkface.

  “Bro-ha, you suck.” Boaz flips through the rest of the magazine. “Man, I’m so bored. Hey, I got a killer thought—let’s fire ourselves up and go drunk midnight-mini-ing? YOLO!”

  “Say YOLO one more time and I’m leaving your ass here.”

  Boaz scoffs. “What crawled up your crack, brah? Be lighter. You’re way too doom-n-gloom

  these days.”

  “Maybe I like doom and gloom. Together. In a civil union.”

  Mohawk rolls his eyes and puts Cosmo back. “I’m going to go get a box of Twinkies. Don’t

  ditch me.”

  “Wouldn’t dream of it.”

  “Like last time, brah?”

  “Miss?” the old cashier calls. I whirl my head around, not having noticed that I’m the next in line. Orange-haired jerkface looks at me then, emerald eyes meeting mine, and as the recognition dawns on his face, it dawns on mine too.

  Double shit.

  His eyes drift down to the jumbo pack of condoms under my arm. A blush begins to creep up the back of my neck, and flood across my face. That sinful, aching grin from last night curls across his lips again. It’s cheshire. It’s trouble.

  “I take mine ribbed, actually,” Roman Montgomery says.

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  Bloomsbury Publishing, London, New Delhi, New York, Oxford, and Sydney

  Copyright © 2016 by Ashley Poston

  The moral right of the author has been asserted.

  All rights reserved.

  You may not copy, distribute, transmit, reproduce, or otherwise make available this publication (or any part of it) in any form, or by any means, (including without limitation electronic, digital, optical, mechanical, photocopying, printing, recording, or otherwise), without the prior written permission of the publisher. Any person who does any unauthorized act in relation to this publication may be liable to criminal prosecution and civil claims for damages.

  This electronic edition published in 2016

  First published in June 2016

  by Bloomsbury Spark, an imprint of Bloomsbury Publishing, Inc.

  www.bloomsbury.com

  For information about permission to reproduce selections from this book, write to Permissions, Bloomsbury Spark, 1385 Broadway, New York, New York 10018 Bloomsbury books may be purchased for business or promotional use. For information on bulk purchases please contact Macmillan Corporate and Premium Sales Department at specialmarkets@macmillan.com

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data available upon request

  ISBN 978-1-61963-784-9

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  Cover design by Jenny Zamenak