By the chorus, we’ve turned it into some kind of chaotic threesome act, pointing at Charlie like sequined assassins. She’s shrieking into her hands, clapping along, mascara streaking as she yells the best lines with us, of somewhere in the crowd, there’s you.
Claire’s still filming like a paparazzo, Zoe’s hair is sticking to her lip gloss, Tamara’s wheezing laughter into her mic, and I’m swaying between them, dizzy on prosecco cocktails and far too much fun.
We screech through the last verse, collapse into each other for the final note, and the club erupts in applause that’s at least seventy percent ironic.
Once we stumble back down the steps and into the booth, Charlie drags us into a tiara-crushing hug, half-laughing, half-sobbing. “You guys are the worst,” she chokes out. “And I love you more than anything.”
When Charlie finally releases us, Zoe flops back into the booth like she’s just closed a Broadway show. Tamara collapses beside her, still hiccupping with laughter, while Claire is replaying the video already, cackling loud enough to draw dirty looks from the booth next to us.
“Alright,” Zoe declares, dramatic as hell, “we need to ride this high. Truth or Dare, bitches.”
There are groans all around and immediate objections, but everyone’s still smiling, half-drunk, ready to play.
“I’ll go first,” Tamara says gamely, crossing her arms.
“Fine, truth or dare?”
“Dare, obviously.”
“Okay.” Zoe’s already decided before anyone else can weigh in. She smirks, eyes glittering. “You have to… go tell the server he’s got the best ass in Denver.”
We howl while Tamara groans, but she gets up anyway, struts to the bar, and actually does it—returning with another round of cocktails on the house.
We all cheer, and Zoe is already crowning herself queen of dares.
“Lulu,” she purrs, turning that wicked grin on me. “Truth or Dare?”
I sway to the music and adrenaline in my veins, considering. “Dare,” I blurt.
Zoe leans back, smug as sin. “Fine. You have to kiss the next person who walks through the door.”
My jaw drops. “Absolutely not.”
“Absolutely yes,” she fires back.
The others start chanting—“Do it! Do it!”—when the doors swing open.
And in walks Logan.
He’s not sober but not drunk either. Sturdy, broad-shouldered, neon painting him unfairly gorgeous. My stomach plummets.
“Oh,fuck me,” I whisper, already half out of my seat.
The booth goes feral. Zoe’s screaming, “GO, GO, GO!” while Charlie gasps, clutching her tiara, and Claire’s got her phone up like she’s livestreaming the apocalypse.
Before I can talk myself out of it, I’m stumbling across the club toward him, sequins catching every light. Logan spots me, brows lowering in that way that always makes my knees weak.
“You have to kiss me,” I blurt as I reach him, grabbing his wrist before he can even speak. “For a dare. You were first through the door. No backsies.”
His eyes move past me—clocking the booth full of women shrieking and waving—then back as his mouth slowly curves.
“A dare, huh?” His voice is low, almost drowned out by the music, but I feel it shiver down my spine.
I nod too fast, babbling, “Just a quick one, cheek, that’s all, it’s not—”
Logan cups my chin, anchoring me. “Yeah, no, Lulu. That’s not how this works.”
And then the rest of the guys barrel in behind him—Chase already shouting for drinks, Jake scanning for Charlie, Reid stone-faced, and Eli… so drunk he nearly takes out a cocktail server on his way in.
