by Sunniva Dee
“One sec,” I reply, crooking a finger at her. Cautiously, she steps inside. Destiny saved my ass all the way through high school. She’s my conscience, the one person with a chance at stopping me from barging head first into disastrous mistakes.
“What’re you up to?” She eyes me suspiciously.
“Com’ere.” I grab her by the arm, but as much as I tug, she doesn’t budge. When she yanks free, I shrug and leap on top of the bed alone. Happiness builds and bubbles beneath my ribs, until I can’t take it any longer.
“Freedom!” I screech wildly, childishly. “I get to do whatever I want!” Boing, boing. The bed frame squeaks with each jump.
“Oh, Lordy,” Destiny sighs.
“No parentals, ever again. Whoop!” Nothing can ruin my mood today.
“If it weren’t for your asshole dad, I’d say you’re overreacting.”
“Free!” What a gorgeous word that is.
“Someone need a chill pill?” Shannon leans a pale, skinny cheek into the doorjamb as her gaze settles on me. Nothing ruffles Shannon. Seriously, she’s too calm for a redhead. I feel my cheeks contract in a grin.
“Screw chill pills,” I say, because contrary to Shannon’s belief, I’ve outgrown my ADHD. She insists it’s why I couldn’t follow the rules at home. Aka the fortress. Aka the prison camp. Whatever.
ADHD or not, I admit that I’m still a bit on the wild side. It makes sense, though, because I can’t think of a better alternative to tail-spinning into darkness. When I do stuff, my thoughts are on the act. I have a blast, I entertain, and my head takes a break, so it’s win-win across the board. You know?
Okay, so maybe there’s a sliver of truth to what Destiny likes to point out, that I’m my own worst enemy. My girls have kept me from losing my shit for a decade now.
Unlike Father. Cue self-induced brain freeze. But enough spin-cycling destructive BS, because here we are, in the college town of Deepsilver and left to our own beautiful devices. This calls for extremes.
I attempt a headstand on my bed in the apartment I’ll share from here on and into eternity with my three BFFs. From my upside-down position, even my cackles sound warbled.
“Where’s my homie?” I puff out.
“Wifey!” Mica screams as she bounces into my room. “You went all euphoric without me? What?”
For an instant, her golden curls fly into a mushroom cloud around her head before she crashes into me, squashing my perfect gymnast pose and making me oomph.
“Pizza’s getting cold,” Destiny says.
“Lies!” Micaela says. “Now, here’s the plan: we’re having food, and then—then—we’re going out.”
Her answer coincides with Destiny’s expected, “we just got here,” and “let’s unpack and watch a movie.” Mica is a genius, though, and she will prevail.
“I love you to death, Destiny,” I manage from underneath the skin and bones and hair that is my other friend, “but Mica has a point. Going out is the way to go.”
“Hey, I was doing fist pumps with your limbs,” Mica objects when I twist free.
Destiny’s black mane shines under my ceiling light, kudos to her somewhat Chinese heritage. She rolls her eyes. At me or Mica, I’m not sure.
Shannon does one of the slow, deliberate headshakes most people don’t notice. Lengths of silky red strands snake along the top of her shoulders while she disagrees with us in her low-key way.
“Pandora and Mica,” she begins, school-teacher-like, and I already know I won’t like what she’s got in store; it’s a bad sign when she uses my whole name, so I get out of my bed and jet past her into the bathroom.
My sister-in-arms, Mica, narrowly slips in behind me. She whirls to the mirror, grabs my beauty bag, and avalanches a small cloud of colors onto the countertop.
“Makeup?” She thrusts a powder brush in my face, and I nod.
A grumbled exchange sieves in from the den.
“Hey, Pandora?” Shannon calls.
“Yeah?”
“I’ve got your container of light bulbs here. You want it?”
Mica snorts, powder drizzling over the faucet in slow motion. “She thinks she’s so clever. Like you can’t lock yourself into a bathroom without spares.”
A fine row of goose bumps spreads up my neck as I scan the space around us: ceiling light—two rows of fluorescent tubes. Check. Mirror lights—theater dressing-room-style with eight bulbs above the top frame. Check. Chandelier—two-three-four-five-six-seven. A seven-bulb chandelier hanging over the bathtub. Check. Right? What are the odds that all the lights would go out at once? Zero to none.
“Here,” Mica says, poking my nose with an eyelash curler. She’s good at diverting my attention. “We’re fine,” she yells to Shannon. “Pandora says to put her collection on her bed. This room has seventeen that work. We a-a-ain’t openin’,” she drawls.
Seventeen. I huff out a breath and feel my shoulders relax.
By the time we leave the bathroom, Destiny and Shannon are prettied up too. They often take the path of least resistance, because in Destiny’s words: “There’s no escaping the Pan-and-Mica tornado.”
In the cab to what Shannon calls “the party street,” I allow two slices of cold pizza to lump their way down my throat. Destiny whips out paper towels for me. She’s always prepared, I swear.
“Thanks,” I say and swallow the last too-big, half-chewed chunk of dough. “So any specific place we’re going to on this ‘party street?’”
“Uh-huh. We’re going to our new haunt!” Mica claps her hands and wraps herself around my arm. It’s infectious the way she squirms with excitement.
“We have a ‘haunt’ already?”
“Sure do.” She nods her chin hard into my muscle while I try to shrug her off me.
“Which is?”
“Smother, according to Siri.” She flashes me her iPhone.
I catch the driver’s hear-no-see-no-evil expression in the mirror.
Shannon tips her head up, happy. What’s interesting about Shannon is that she’s a Libra, so she changes her mind nonstop. With coffee-colored irises sparkling with enthusiasm, I can tell she’s a hundred percent in now. “I actually read about this place before you made us cross the country to live here,” she says. “It’s supposed to be a total hotbed for hunky seniors.”
I whoop and high-five her, which makes Destiny groan. “Why am I doing this again?”
“’Cause you’re whipped?” I suggest. Mica snakes a thin arm around Destiny and tightens her grip on the two of us. For a fairy-sized girl, she’s damn strong.
“What Pan said,” she purrs in a low, seductive voice. The taxi driver’s stare snaps to Mica, studying her in a non-customer way. Eyes on the road, dude.
We come to a halt at the entry of a gloomy alleyway. I’m not sure I’d deem this a “party street.” A recent rainfall has littered the frayed asphalt with moisture, lending an oily feel to the darkness. I can’t help tittering at the eeriness of it.
“Smother’s here?” Mica asks.
“Yes, ma’am.” The driver indicates a retro neon sign spelling out “SMOTHER” halfway down the road. I catch the pink light reflecting off the head of a bald bouncer. With thick arms crossed over his chest, he examines us as we spill out of the cab and walk toward him. I suddenly realize no one else is clamoring to get into his establishment.
God, my parents would have flipped out over this place. My old, strict, and really fucking prim parents.
My phone buzzes in my pocket.
“Goddammit,” I mutter.
“Mom checking on the heiress? Or Dad this time?” Shannon smirks at me. I fumble to turn the piece of junk off in my skinny jeans.
The heiress. Yeah, right.
“Listen to me,” Destiny says. “If you just pick up once and tell them you’re fine, they’ll back off. You should have called t
hem as soon as we arrived tonight.”
“Right, because checking in every four hours is normal when your daughter’s in college and about to turn twenty. Every. Four. Hours.”
“At least, they let you come with us. Remember they threatened to drive you themselves? Also, your dad could’ve insisted you stay in town for college, like he wanted in the beginning.”
“Whatever.”
“And you’re here on their dime.”
“Jesus, why don’t you just shut up, Destiny?” Aren’t we supposed to enjoy ourselves? All I want is to forget that I’ve spent years in nothing short of a jail. I breathe out as my gaze meets Micaela’s. For a moment, her eyes glitter with the kind of understanding I need. I swallow old despair.
“Okay, sorry,” Destiny murmurs. “Was just trying to keep it real.”
My iPhone takes forever to blink off. God knows why I brought the thing in the first place. I should have left it at the apartment. The only ones with an urge to call tonight would be the parentals anyway.
“Yeah! Time to party,” Mica growls, and I adore her for changing the subject. Narrowly avoiding a puddle, she latches onto me. The way we both struggle to stay on our feet makes my formerly delirious mood flood back in.
“Absobelutely! Fake IDs?” I stage-whisper to Shannon, our tour hostess.
“Ah, Pan—not so loud!” Destiny hisses, which Mica finds abnormally funny. She doubles over, howling with laughter.
The bouncer must be deaf. We’re so close, a normal person would have heard every word. Or maybe he needs customers? Wait, maybe he doesn’t give a shit. Shannon fans out a poker-hand of recently acquired identification cards. He barely glances at the them before shooing us inside.
Lazy spotlights morph from dirty greens to reds along the ceiling. The bar occupies the entire right wall of the room, its bottles and glasses alive with the shifting illumination. They speak my language, beckoning me closer.
Behind the counter, a blonde girl shakes a drink mixer, the sound nonexistent inside the blanketing music. Slow dubstep throbs around me, vibrates with me. Makes my heart speed up and follow the rhythm. I instantly want more. And faster.
A small D.J. booth hovers a few feet above the floor against another wall. Its matte black color is meant to make it disappear, but I have no problem distinguishing the guy bobbing his head up there, headphones half on while he calmly scours his underlings.
To our surprise, Smother is crowded. I grab Shannon’s arm and haul her across the tiny dance floor with Mica and Destiny trailing close. The guy bartender is the best bet for us, I decide, in case they card at the bar too; in my experience, men spend less time on that stuff.
“Four tequila shots!” I squeal out while Destiny objects.
“Make them double!” Mica backs me up, and I high-five her in agreement. Thankfully, Shannon is still with us—as in, for now she hasn’t Libra’d out of consent. To be on the safe side, though, I add, “Plus peanuts and four diet Cokes.”
We appropriate a tall, round table by the dance floor, and my world just became perfect. I sway to the music, rocking the barstool with my body as we comment on the clientele. Yes. Shannon was right. Lots of hot seniors.
Christian, the bartender, drops by to exchange our shots for new doubles. “From that table,” he says, snapping his fingers toward a couple of hipsters covered in beards over by the exit. Mica waves at them, and one of them winks in acknowledgment.
Hell yes. This, right here, is the first day of the rest of my life.
DOMINIC
Fuck, I’m so tired. I’ve worked nonstop since school let out in June, and I won’t be working any less once my last year starts up either. Two more days until that happens.
As a future physiotherapist, I’m lucky to get any job in this shithole, but sometimes the odd hours at the spa drive me nuts. I need the money, though. The owner and my benefactor, Miss Geraldine from Hyde Park, London, has incredible business talent. Three months ago, she decided to branch out and specialize in cheap, after-hours massage for worn-out workaholics. Since then, we’ve been swamped every damn day between five and eleven p.m.
The missus likes me. And whenever she wants me to, I like her right back. Usually against the fridge or the table in the kitchenette of the Elysium Spa. She prefers young, handsome guys, she says, and she likes it raw. I tell her that’s fine, because, hey, I like women.
Tonight, we were too busy to play. A new hire left us hanging, so the three of us who showed up had to service all. When this happens, we compensate by working our clients harder and cutting down each session by a few minutes. If you leave them dazed enough, they don’t keep track of time.
It’s one a.m., and I’m done loosening my own tense muscles at Nonstop Fitness. Thank God it’s Saturday tomorrow; I’ve got the day off, and now I’m ready for a beer. No, I’m craving a beer. I’m about to pass the entrance to Jones Street on my way home, but an entwined couple stumbles out of Smother, leaving the music to burst out freely. Haven’t seen Christian in a while. I think I’ll grab that drink inside.
2. HOT MESS
DOMINIC
Damn, the place is packed tonight. Clearly, everyone’s back in town—and they’ve dragged another batch of freshmen with them. After a whole day of chitchatting with clients at work, all I want is to relax. Smother has been my favorite hangout since sophomore year, and now I squeeze past the clusters of partiers on the way up to the bar.
As I grab the Corona cute bartender-girl Arriane holds up, my attention goes to a commotion at the end of the counter. Some fresh-faced chicks are giving a boost to a friend who looks pretty damn lit. The friend in question fumbles and grasps onto the wood, knees sliding against it before she wobbles to her feet above us.
“Yeah,” she mouths, and I swear her lips stretch into the word “Free!” Then, she starts dancing. When someone gives up a seat next to me, I sink down with my beer, watching.
She throws her hair back, slow waves reaching her ass as she does. I find myself grinning at her enthusiasm when she raises her arms above her head and does circles with her wrists. If it weren’t for her hips rocking, I’d say the girl was belly-dancing? All I know is that it’s fucking hot.
A skinny little goldilocks hops up next to her. She raises a glass with something green sloshing over the edge, tips up on her toes, and tries to pour the potion down Hottie’s throat.
Wow. They’re doing crème de menthe shots. Who does that? I mean, grasshoppers are one thing, but to drink that sticky syrup straight up is to ask for a two-day hangover from hell.
I laugh quietly; I learned that the hard way from our Spanish exchange student in high school. It was his poison of choice. Bare, or mixed in crazy cocktails. Crema de menta. Ugh!
Hottie gulps down the shot, brushes her hair away from her face, and sings along to the song. “Hot Mess,” she belts out. Christian, my bartender bud, shakes his head and ambles over to me.
“She’s had enough, huh?” I cup my palm to funnel the question over the music. He slides down on his elbows and squints in her direction.
“Yep, this is their first night in town, and she already considers herself a regular here. Lord, have mercy.”
“Freshman?”
“Need you ask?”
“Christian!” She’s sitting, a couple of wet napkins sticking to her butt. A concerned, Asian friend performs an expert, last-minute save of some empty glasses, as Hottie wiggles closer to us.
Christian steps over and leans into her loud whispers. She’s got the confidence of a drunk who’s aware of how beautiful she is, and today she has no worries. Tomorrow, though? I can’t help laughing at her hangover-to-come.
“Is your friend smirking at me?” she slurs to Christian. A long twirl of hair slithers over her nose when she speaks, and I might be a little mesmerized.
“Not sure. Ask him. Can I get you anything? Like w
ater?”
“Water!” she huffs derisively. Then, she shrugs. “Yeah, I need water. Loootsa water. And them too.” She points in the general direction of her friends. The redhead and the Asian one both appear exhausted. The waif who joined her on the counter does not. She’s rock-scissor-papering some dude over his whiskey.
Hottie narrows her green gaze at me, suddenly serious. A splash of mascara has smeared into barely-there laugh lines at the corners of her eyes, and I think it’s how she’d look in the morning after a night in my bed.
“So who’re you, pretty-boy?” she asks me.
Pretty-boy. Great.
“I’m Dominic, and I’m not… that.”
Her eyes widen with enthusiasm. “Oh, no—you totally are, like, super-cute. You’re sexy too.”
Nope. Not even from a drunk chick…
The clientele shifts in front of the counter. I slip closer to her and flop down on a stool.
“You don’t know how edible you are?” Her pitch rises unnecessarily, and I calculate the potential number of crème de menthe shots in my head. Depending on if she ate before she started, I’d say anywhere from six to twelve.
“What’s your name?” I deflect while she blatantly checks me out. There’s no denying that she’s funny.
“Pandoraaaa’s her name!” Goldilocks’ face appears out of nowhere. She’s smiling big, and Pandora joins her. “And Mica is my sister-in-arms! Those”—she points at the tired girls on the ground—“are Destiny and Shannon. I think they’re sober. Aren’t they sober, Mica?” She nods as if to convince Mica.
“Yeah! They’re always sober!” The two of them crack up and hug each other. My cue to take my leave; I came here for a beer, and they’re bumbling teenagers. Why the hell am I even talking with them?
I’m about to say my goodbyes when Pandora brushes Mica away and dips into me. “C’mere,” she whispers, and some sort of exotic flower scent teases me. I’m curious of her intentions, so I stand up, facing her.
“What’s your name pretty-boy?” she asks again.
Women come after me all the time when they’re drunk, so this isn’t a surprise. Some lose their inhibitions. “The sluts are ready for the picking,” Christian reminds me on such occasions, which is fine by both of our standards. Now and then, though, you get a different vibe from a girl; there’s a pull.