And Emily is a girl I met at a frat party two months ago. We danced and flirted and kissed a few times, but we haven’t managed to meet up again since that one night.
Now, I’m not a total asshole who ghosts girls, but when Julia nudges me in the ribs, saying, “Ace, now isn’t the time to text your harem. Get your head in the game,” I don’t hesitate to slide my phone back into my pocket.
“Relax, Jules,” I say, wrapping my arm around her shoulders. “It’s all going to work out.”
She flashes me a nervous look, and I pull her closer to my side. She’s anxious about using a fake ID for the first time.
“The bouncer isn’t going to know, okay?” I whisper into her ear. “I got you.”
She rolls her eyes but follows my lead, officially allowing me back into her good graces after the fuckup with her beloved plant.
Luna’s funeral was short but adorably dramatic in a way that only Julia Brooks can pull off.
She insisted on a eulogy, and I let her roast me the entire time while I buried the dead plant in the Brookses’ backyard. We ate pizza, argued over whetherGreaseis a rom-com some more—it is—and then sat down and watched it for probably the hundredth time. I know every fucking word of that movie, and Julia still pretends to be annoyed by it even though I know she ships Danny and Sandy together as much as I do.
It was a great day, despite the rocky start, and now, with the night still young, we’re with our closest pals and heading to one of the hottest clubs in the city.
The bouncer flexes and postures as we approach the front door of a brick building in SoHo. His mouth curls into a subtle snarl that accompanies the complaints from the people waiting in line behind us—otherwise known as the ones I’m acting like don’t exist right now as I move our group toward the entrance where music pounds through the door and the flicker of strobe lights peeks through the bottom crack.
Groove is a college club that’s well-known by the young and rich of NYC. No doubt, socialites, polo types, and American royalty have soured Mr. Muscles’s point of view on groups that bypass the line, but I’m not fucking standing out here sweating my balls off in the June heat. And I’m sure as shit not letting our friend Scottie suffer through the wait in her wheelchair while people whisper.
Playing cutsies is the only way.
Luckily, I know I’ll change the beefhead’s mind—since he’s already preparing to tell us to fuck off—because I, Ace Kelly, have a special gift for changing everyone’s minds.
It’s the reason broody Finn Hayes and star quarterback Blake Boden are my friends, the catalyst for my popularity, and truthfully, the only way I got into Dickson University last year.
In high school, I slacked a bit on my grades—shocking, I know—and landed myself on the wait list. But all it took was a quick trip to campus and a chat with the dean, and I was well on my way to my first semester of freshman year on time, with my parents none the wiser.
Which is good—because my mom would have fucking killed me. She’s not the type of mom to whisper disappointment with clasped hands and pursed lips. Cassie Kelly is a stone-cold soul-snatcher. If she ever finds out, you’ll be talking to my ghost. Seriously, R-I-P me.
“Hey, man,” I schmooze, handing over my fake ID to Mr. Muscles, followed by Julia’s as she passes it to me. “How you doing tonight?” Recognition hits me from another occasion like a bolt of lightning, and I use it. My mind is always networking and cataloging people I meet for the future, and the older I get, the more and more valuable the skill seems to be. “Your name’s Bruno, right? I think I’ve seen you with my buddy Knox.”
Bruno shrugs and holds his flashlight to my ID first before handing it back and moving on to Jules’s. He glances at Julia and me, entranced by our good looks, I assume, and then to Scottie’s wheelchair behind us.
I keep talking.
“I know it’s busy. Friday nights are crazy base case, but I can’t imagine what it’ll be like in August when all the college kids move back in to town, you know?”
His ice cracks slightly. “Yeah, this is nothing. Line will triple by September.”
“Triple?” I scoff, really leaning into his plight to earn some brownie points. “You’re fucking kidding.”
“Nope.” He shakes his head. “Even come December, they’ll all be out here, freezing nipples off for a chance to get inside.”
“Standard turnover, though, right? People out before people in, and if it gets late enough and a good DJ is on, no one is leaving.”
He nods his big head. “Exactly.”
“Shit,” I say with a laugh, patting him on the shoulder as the corner of his mouth turns up. “I’ll remember you. Maybe even bring you some HotHands or something if I’m in the neighborhood.”
He chuckles, and I shake his hand, leaving behind the hundred-dollar bill folded there. Without acknowledging it, I turn back to Scottie and Finn and Blake and wave them forward and through the door, and Mr. Muscles claps me on the shoulder, not even bothering to check their IDs. “Enjoy yourselves,” he says as we all head inside.
“Thanks, Bruno.”
I follow the group in, but Julia hangs back, excitedly bouncing high enough to put an arm around my shoulder. This is our first official time sneaking in anywhere with fake IDs, which is actually remarkable, given we’re so close to of age now. I mean, I’m nineteen and she’s eighteen, but Julia is clearly jazzed over our fake-ID rebellion.
“I can’t believe it worked!” she squeals and squeezes my shoulder. “I’m so excited!”
