“Why don’t you just tell him you like him?” She twirls two tiny straws in her cocktail, her eyes periodically flitting up to the stage. She’s waiting for Adam, and I’d probably be jealous of her if those two weren’t so disgustingly perfect for each other.
Last semester, I nearly got kicked out of my dorm when I let Rowan move in with me and my roommate. But Rowan’s asshole live-in boyfriend had cheated on her, and she had nowhere to go, and she’s been my best friend since kindergarten. I ignored the written warnings from my RA, and Rowan ultimately ended up moving in with Adam before I got kicked out. Fast-forward to one too many “overnight visitors” later, I still ended up getting reported, and Rowan and I got a two-bedroom in an apartment complex near campus. Her name is on the lease right next to mine, but really, the apartment is just a decoy she uses to avoid telling her parents that she’s actually living with three ungodly hot rock stars. She sleeps in Adam’s bed, his bandmate Shawn is in the second bedroom, and Joel sleeps on their couch most nights because he’s a hot, stupid, infuriating freaking nomad.
“Because I don’t like him,” I answer. When I realize my drink is gone, I steal Rowan’s, down the last of it, and flag the bartender.
“Then why is he making you insane?”
“Because he doesn’t like me.”
Rowan lifts a sandy blonde eyebrow at me, but I don’t expect her to understand. Hell, I don’t understand. I’ve never wanted a boy to like me so badly in my entire life. I don’t even want Joel to just like me—I want him to worship the ground I walk on and throw himself at my feet. I want him to beg me to be with him and then cry his eyes out when I tell him I’m not a relationship kind of girl.
When the bartender arrives to take our orders, I order shots for both of us. At eighteen, Rowan and I are far from being old enough to drink, but our fake IDs and the stamps on our hands say otherwise.
“Make hers a double,” Rowan says, pointing a thumb in my direction.
I finally stop scowling long enough to smile. “See? This is why I love you.”
We’ve just gulped down our shots and slapped our glasses on the bar top when something heavy lands on my shoulder. Leti rests his left elbow on me and his right elbow on Rowan. He’s been dancing his butt off on the dance floor with some tattooed beefcake, but he smells like he just stepped out of the shower, fresh and sexy-clean.
“What are we celebrating?”
I groan, and Rowan shakes her head in warning.
“Oh,” Leti says. “Joel?”
“He’s such an ass,” I complain.
“Didn’t you just spend the night with him this past weekend?”
“Yes!” I shout. “God, what is his problem?!”
Leti laughs and massages my shoulders. “If you like him, just tell him.”
Okay, number one, in what freaking universe do they think that would ever work? Joel is a serial player. He lures girls in with his bad-boy hair and his panty-dropping smile, and then he chews them up and spits them out. ‘Liking’ him would be like ‘liking’ ice cream. Sure, it’s great when you’re stuffing your face with it, but then it’s gone and you’re just left with this all-consuming emptiness. Yeah, you can go to the store and get more, but what if they don’t have the flavor you want? What then?!
And number two, have these two ever met me? Boys chase after ME, not the other way around.
“I don’t like him!” I protest.
Rowan and Leti share a look and speak at the same time. “She likes him.”
“I hate you bitches.”
I hop off of my stool and head toward the crowd. Mayhem is the biggest club in town, and tonight, The Last Ones to Know are opening for a band even bigger than they are, so mayhem is an understatement for the vibe on the floor. Before the bands take the stage, the club pulses with house music that makes the floors throb and the walls shiver. I have every intention of dancing my ass off until my brain overheats and shuts down from mind-numbing exhaustion.
“Aw, come on, Dee!” Rowan pleads before I get too far.
“Don’t be mad!” Leti adds.
I turn around and prop my hands on my hips. “Are you two coming or what?”
After four songs of me being the meat in a Rowan-and-Leti sandwich, the house music fades out and the roadies begin the sound check. The crowd splits in half—half surging toward the stage to get good spots, and half retreating to the bar to catch their breath and drown themselves in liquor. Rowan, Leti, and I join the latter half, grabbing the best seats at the bar and spinning around to face the stage.
Every time Adam is about to perform, Rowan gets antsy, her feet dancing and her fingers curling. She picks at the pretty pink polish I painted her nails in this morning, and I tell her to stop, but I’m pretty sure she’d self-combust if she ever actually listened to me.