When I thought about it in my normal, very deep, and entirely too metaphorical for the average person sense, Florida was coming together like two sturdy bookends. My Coconut Creek Christmas started and ended with pregame alcohol, an outfit that squeezed every breath of air out of me, strobe lights, sticky bar floors, and bass thudding so violently through my bones that speaking to the person next to me was like doing so underwater. The longer the night went on the more the crowd built, until we were a sea of bobbing heads and flailing bodies, and everything not directly in front of me started to blur.
Natalia pulled me in and out of the swell for all her favorite songs, which were most of them, until we were misted in a sheen of sweat, and our calves were aching from hours of exertion. The difference between then and that first night out was the company. It was hard not to feel invincible with four former special operators close by, following our every move. Mateo and Frankie like watch dogs, sporadically joining in and keeping us hydrated, and even when we thought we’d lost Tyler or Sam for good, they’d show up with their hands full of shot glasses to pass around.
The music changed and I felt a chest at my back and fingers lacing through the loops of my waistband. My hips went one way and Frankie’s shortly followed, the familiar strength of his arms guiding me to roll against him. My head dropped to his shoulder and his lips lowered to the juncture where my jaw met my neck. The second I closed my eyes and the room started spinning I realized exactly how drunk I was.
“Let me get you some water,” he offered, kissing the skin. His lips were cold and I lifted up on my toes to follow them as he pulled away. “Sam got us a table.”
I jiggled my empty glass of vodka and juice and let him steer me by my hips to the edge of the crowd where the sound flattened like popping your ears at altitude. Tyler Swan was deep in conversation at the edge of the bar, tracing his fingers down the spaghetti strap of a blonde’s tank top. She stepped closer to him, standing between his legs.
“He’s good,” I said out loud. “Whatever he’s saying, she’s into him.”
We lingered between the table and the bar for a moment. Frankie’s fingers tightened on my waist. “You think you’d be?” he asked, motioning toward Tyler. “I’ve never seen someone turn him down.”
“Before we met.” I laughed, my vision swimming as I looked from Tyler to Frankie. His lips thinned into a flat line. “He’s very hot, and I’m very shallow.”
“I forgot that little detail about you,” he said sarcastically. “Must have gotten lost somewhere in all those private conversations.”
“You’re the only one that gets that side of me.” I nudged him, inching onto my toes to get closer to his face. Frankie’s eyes dropped to my lips and then leveled with me. “The next guy will be a poor, underappreciated bastard after you.”
His mouth opened to say something, thick brown eyebrows pulled together like curtains creasing his forehead. We were cutting the air between us into pieces with silence and I swear his pupils dilated into black holes. Then his jaw snapped shut, the haze dispersing as he backed me toward the half-circle booth where Sam was sitting alone.
“Stay here,” he instructed me. Then he pointed at his friend. “Make sure this one doesn’t get herself into any trouble. She’s very good at that.”
Sam lifted his right hand in salute. “Copy that.”
I plopped down beside him on the leather cushions, feeling all that adrenaline from the dance floor simmer to nothing but a dull throb in the heels of my feet. Frankie stalked away, toward where Tyler was standing against the bar.
“Not much of a dancer?” I asked.
“It’s more fun to watch.” His gentle cadence somehow rose over the music. “Observing people being weird and human is a favorite pastime of mine.”
“Really?” I snorted, plucking his drink out of his hand and taking a generous swig of bitter brown liquor. Then regretting it instantly. It tasted like motor oil and burnt citrus, and the cherry at the bottom did nothing but sour my taste buds after I shoved it into my mouth. My teeth slid across my tongue trying to scrape the flavor away.
“Like that.” His lips tugged up at the corner. “You just went through the seven stages of grief over an Old Fashioned. I got to see a little slice of life happening in this head.” He tapped his pointer finger between my eyes.
“So you’re sitting here, watching people have fun, and that’s your definition of fun?”
“Look over there.” Sam pointed through the crowd to a couple standing in the corner. I scooted closer to his side, squinting at them. Sam Swan smelled like mint and that same citrus I was still trying to forget the taste of. “She is so not interested in him. It’s painful at this point,” he said. “My guess is this is a first date gone wrong, or catfish situation. He probably said he was six-one when the guy is pushing five-nine in those clunky fucking dress shoes. He’s been drinking Long Island Iced Teas, which is a disaster waiting to happen, and she’s had her nose stuck to her phone screen for twenty minutes. Probably coming up with an excuse and an alibi before midnight so she doesn’t get stuck smooching Mr. Wrong.”
“Or maybe,” I suggested, “they’ve actually been together for years but they got in a fight on the car ride over. Something about her taking too long in the bathroom, or him leaving all the lights on and forgetting to feed the cat. Really lame reasons but both are too stubborn to be the one to apologize first. So being resentful, he decided to start slamming Long Islands to take the edge off, because they’re delicious and guaranteed to get you fucked up, while she’s on the phone begging her friends to get here faster.”
Sam’s light eyes twinkled in amusement. “Right, well, you don’t seem like you’re having fun at all, Ophelia.”
“It’s a little fun,” I admitted.
“What about these guys?” Sam put a friendly arm around my shoulder and veered my attention toward two men sitting by themselves in a large booth. Both were wearing black, save for the flashy silver jewelry that turned fiery under the lights every time they strobed past. On the table in front of them sat a few unopened bottles sweating on ice and neither of them were speaking or remotely interested in the other's company, which was obvious as they kept their heads on a swivel.