So I improvise. “Val found a hottie and I need a dance partner.”
“Not interested.” His hand slides up Savannah’s side until his thumb rests under her boob.
Her mouth is set in a mulish line, daring me to call her out on this.
And I do, because both of them will regret this tomorrow. “Come on,” I urge Easton. “I’m hungry. Let’s go find something to eat.”
He leans forward and kisses Savannah’s shoulder. He’s done listening to me, if he ever started.
I try Savannah instead. “This isn’t going to make you feel better. They may have the same last name, but they aren’t the same person.”
Her defiant expression wavers for a moment, until Easton drawls in a voice loud enough to carry, “What, you’re the only girl we can pass around?”
A few giggles and a gasp put a smile on his mouth. He’s hit his mark, just as he intended. Maybe he’s not so high, after all. He knows exactly what he’s doing and apparently Savannah does, too.
“Fine, screw up your lives. Both of you.”
My hurt expression must penetrate whatever drug-fog he’s in, because his face pales with regret. “Ella—”
I push past a couple of gawking students and run smack into Jordan, who’s drinking a vodka mixer and smirking at me.
“Jealous that your Royals are moving on? Everyone knows you were always just temporary.” With the glass still between her fingers, she flicks some non-existent speck on my shoulder. The icy liquid sloshes over the brim to trickle underneath the neckline of my jersey and between my breasts. “Slumming it is fun for a night or two, but after a while the stench just gets too strong to handle.”
“You would know, wouldn’t you?” I say tersely, backing away.
“Actually, I’m just hypothesizing, because getting dirty isn’t my thing. Neither is getting wet.”
Jordan smiles as she empties her drink down the front of my jersey.
As outrage jolts through me, my hand shoots out and fists her silk blouse. I drag her to me and rub my wet chest all over her. “Guess we’re both wet now,” I chirp.
“This is a thousand dollar Balmain!” she screeches as she shoves me away. “You’re such a bitch.”
I give her a mean smile. “You say that like it’s a bad thing.”
Then I stalk off in search of Val before Jordan can come up with another insult. I find my friend in the middle of the dance floor with Hiro’s hands all over her butt.
It takes several hard taps to get Val’s attention.
“What’s wrong?” she asks.
“I want to leave. I can’t stay here another minute.”
Val looks reluctantly at Hiro and then back to me. “Okay. Let me run to the bathroom and I’ll be ready.”
Hiro steps forward. “Why don’t I drive you home? I’ve got Tina and her boyfriend, Cooper, with me.”
Val gives me a pleading glance. “Is that okay?”
“Of course,” I say, but I don’t mean it. I need a friend to lean on. I want someone to hold my hand, brush the hair out of my face, find me a towel. I want to commiserate with someone about what a bitch Jordan is, and for someone to tell me that it’s okay that I don’t like her.
But Val’s my friend and she needs something tonight too, something that I can’t give her. So I offer a reassuring smile and then walk away with the vodka mixer trickling between my boobs.
The crowd doesn’t part for me like a scene in the movie. I have to push and shove past cops, robbers, superheroes, and werewolves. More than a little beer is spilled on or near me, and by the time I reach the front door, I smell like I’ve been dunked in a vat of yeast.
I stomp down the asphalt toward my car. My heel gets caught in a crack and my ankle decides to give way.
Cursing under my breath, I rip off my shoes and finish the rest of the walk barefoot, not even caring that the tiny pebbles stick to the bottom of my feet like little, pointed leeches. When I get to the convertible, I toss the shoes in the backseat and grab the door handle.
Ew!
What is that? My hand comes away sticky. I fumble with my phone in my left hand and shine the screen against my right. There’s something gooey and yellow-ish spread all over my fingers and—are those ants?
Gross!
I yelp and swipe my hand against my jersey, only now my palm is sticky and covered in fabric fibers. Grimly, I shine my phone on the car door. Honey is running down the side of it, and a line of ants swarm around the handle and into the crevice of the door.
With a sense of foreboding, I lean over the top of the open convertible. The phone doesn’t illuminate much, but I see more ants and shiny speckles of what looks like glitter on top of a pool of honey on the expensive leather. The back of the driver’s seat is coated with the same shit.