“Sorry, darl,” she says, finally looking up at me with a grin. “That was Amy, asking if we want to go to that bar with her again. Remember the one we went to last weekend?”
I frown in annoyance.
Amy is our other roommate (Well,oneof our other roommates. There’s also a guy called Ben, apparently, but I’ve never actually met him, and am secretly convinced the other two are just making him up), and her job in P.R. means she can get us into some of the best places in town. Which would beamazing, obviously, except I have a sneaking suspicion that Amy doesn’t reallylikeme all that much. Summer says I’m imagining it, but she never looks me in the eye when she says it, and, I don’t know, there’s just something about the way Amy only ever acknowledges me when Summer’s there too that makes me not trust her.
Just because you’re paranoid, it doesn’t mean they’re not out to get you.
“You go,” I tell Summer, impatiently jiggling my car keys as I wait for her to finish typing her response to Amy. “I just want to go home. And I didn’t really like that place, anyway.”
Amy. I don’t really likeAmyis what I want to say. Because she’s a classic, Grade A Mean Girl, and you can trust me on that, because it takes one to know one.
“Oh, come on, Lexie,” Summer says pleadingly. “You said you loved it. And it’s not the same without you. You know we depend on you to make us look better.”
I smile weakly. I know she’s just trying to be nice, but I’m flattered nonetheless. I’m used to being the Main Character, you see. Back home, I wasalwaysthe Main Character — until, suddenly, I wasn’t.
I miss it, actually; what it was like to be Lexie Steele, most popular girl in the High School of Life. It’s not like that out here, though. Here in L.A.,everyoneis the Main Character. Or, at least they’re trying to be. Out here, I’m not special or interesting. I’m not the prettiest girl in the room, like I always was back in Heather Bay, but I’m not theworstgirl in the room either, and I’d really like to keep it that way. I promised myself I would — that I’d be good, and try my best to make better decisions from now on. Which is why, as Summer looks up at me pleadingly, I simply heave a sigh of resignation and put my bag back down on the bar.
“Go,” I tell her again, waving away her protests. “I can tell you’re dying to. I’ll close up here for you. It’s not like I’ve got anywhere else I need to be.”
“Lexie, you’re an angel,” Summer tells me, blowing me a kiss as she grabs her coat from the hook behind the bar. “Tell you what, I’ll buy you lunch tomorrow to say thank you. How’s that sound?”
“You don’t have to do that,” I start to tell her, but she’s already halfway out the door, her phone in her hand as she taps out another message, so I turn my attention back to the task in hand, desperate to be done with this so I can get home.
Fifteen minutes later, I’m locking the bar door behind me, and doing my best to ignore the flutter of nerves in my stomach as I step out onto the rain-slicked street. I love the city during the day, when it’s sunny (And it’salwayssunny), but I’m not sure I’ll ever get used to it at night. And as I make my way down the street to where I parked my car, I’m starting to regret not just leaving with Summer, like she wanted me to.
What if Drunk Guy is out here waiting for me? What if he wasn’t content with taking photos, and now he’s going to—
“Aaaargh!”
I’m so keyed-up from all the over-thinking I’m doing that when my foot makes contact with something soft and warm on the pavement —sidewalk— the scream that bursts from my throat is so shrill that it doesn’t even sound like it belongs to me.
I leap back, instinctively trying to get away from whatever the object is on the ground, while at the same time trying to work out exactly what it is.
Please don’t be a dead body, please don’t be a dead body, please don’t be a dead body.
My heart is pounding with fear, but curiosity gets the better of me, and, when the object fails to react to either my scream or the contact from my foot, I edge forward, risking a closer look.
Itisa body — I can see that right away. Fortunately, though, it’s not adeadone. I can see the slight rise and fall of the chest which indicates that this body is very much alive, and the good news continues as I move closer still and establish that, although it’s definitely a drunk guy, it’s notthedrunk guy: a.k.a. the asshole from the bar.
At least that’s something.
It might not be Drunk Guy — or, indeed, Dead Guy — but, nevertheless, thereissomething vaguely familiar about the shape on the ground before me, and as my eyes flick down to the outstretched feet, clad in an obnoxious pair of pool slides, then back up to the wiry beard, I realize who it is.
It’s Mr. 3.5.
And he’s passed out in the street in front of the bar.
Shit.
What am I supposed to do now?
I stand there uncertainly, looking down at the body in front of me. I’ll admit it: I’m more than a little pissed off. Now that the adrenalin has started to fade and I know I’m not in mortal danger from this man, I’m just plain annoyed with him. I mean, okay, I know he stepped in to defend me from Drunk Guy earlier, and I’m grateful. I really am. But now he’s given me a moral dilemma to deal with in return, and I don’t do that sort of thing. I don’t want the responsibility of this random stranger hanging over me. All I want to do is go home and fall into bed. But, instead, here I am, standing on this rainy street in the dark, feeling like I should be Doing Something to help him.
And I don’t want to.
Because I’m the villain, remember? I’m not the Good Samaritan here, and I really resent being cast unwillingly in that role.
A sudden burst of laughter makes me jump again, and I shrink closer to the wall of the building 3.5 is slumped against as a group of young guys walk past, some of them looking back curiously as they go. Now that I’m standing even closer to him, I notice his phone clutched in his outstretched hand. I bet his wallet is in his pocket too, and if someone doesn’tDo Something, he’s going to be waking up tomorrow morning without either of them.
