Red velvet ropes are stretched out in front of us to block off the steps to the dance floor, effectively keeping us out of the hustle and bustle. This is our first real group outing since the tumultuous end to last semester, and I figured paying for VIP would hedge our bets for a fantastic fucking time. Plus, my dad left behind a credit card for “emergencies” while they’re away in the Bahamas with my brother, and showing Scottie a good time after all she’s been through is of the highest urgency.
Our good friend Scottie wasn’t always in a wheelchair. When we all started Dickson at the beginning of freshman year, she was a star athlete on the prestigious Dragons’ cheerleading squad. To say life handed her a bag of shit a few months ago would be putting it mildly.
“The gang is back together!”
“Four friends walk into a bar…” Scottie adds, sipping the drink Finn and I just delivered through a tiny black cocktail straw. I pick up my own rum and Coke to do the same. “And then one more rolls in.”
Blake stutters, Julia squeaks, and I dump the liquid from mydrink right back into my glass to keep from spewing it everywhere as my eyes shoot to Finn. Jokes about paralysis are touchy—even if you’re the one without use of your legs.
Finn guffaws, devolving into hysterics rarely seen from the straight-faced friend of mine, and I do my best to lean in to the awkwardness. If I’m anything, it’s wildly inappropriate and bold when everyone else is timid.
“Oh, come on,” Scottie says, reaching over to shove Blake in the shoulder. “Lighten up and take the joke. Please. For the love of God. I need everyone to be normal.”
She’s not completely off base in assuming we’ve been uptight, but I don’t know why she’d think it’s because of her. Her boyfriend’s main hobby is carrying a stick in his ass.
Don’t get me wrong, he’s had reason, but I’ve been surgically removing the damn thing all year long. Scottie in a wheelchair is nothing in the buzzkill department compared to Finn’s proclivity for wanting to kill everyone.
“You’re right,” Blake agrees. “Sorry, Scottie. I’ll lighten up.”
“Thank God.” She sighs dramatically. “I was starting to worry that pod people had invaded your bodies and turned your likable, playful personality into a typical jock.”
“Ouch.” Blake laughs. “Low blow on the sports, babe.”
She wags a finger. “You remember who I used to date. Other than you, I don’t hold out a lot of hope for muscle-bound lovers of pigskin.”
“That’s because Dane was a douche burger,” Blake remarks before Finn can stand up and flip the table for old times’ sake. I swear, my buddy Finn Hayes has been hard at work beating the shit out of that kid Scottie was dating when we first arrived at Dickson last August for going on eleven months now. I’m glad Dane the Douche finally got kicked off campus for good since I missed the opportunity to invest in stock for that New-Skin shit you put on torn-up hands—and for Finn’s and Scottie’s sakes, of course, since he was a tormenting asshole. “It had nothing to do with football.”
Finn nods and winks at Blake. “I shoulda killed that kid.”
Yep. So close to the table-flipping.
I reach around Julia and pat Finn on the chest. “No, no. You got in enough trouble with that tool as it is. No need to spend life in prison, buddy.”
“You would’ve gotten me out, Acer. Just last week, you told me your dad has a separate lawyer on retainer for whatever trouble Gunnar gets into,” Finn says confidently, drinking from his glass of ice and brown liquid, his handsome, edgy fucking eyes running roughshod all over my sensibilities. He’s right. I’d do anything for him, even when he’s grumbly. We have a bond, a kismet, a wholly symbiotic, fated-but-platonic love story.
“Just when you think a guy likes you foryou…” I joke. “You find out he’s only with you for what you put out.”
Blake rolls his eyes and laughs.
“What are you drinking, Scottie?” Julia asks cheerfully from beside me.
“It’s…oh… Well, it’s a virgin Dirty Shirley,” Scottie admits. “I’m still not big on alcohol.”
“What?” I ask, shocked. “Finn told me virgin was just part of the name. You’re not drinking?”
“Neither am I,” Finn admits softly, putting his glass to his lips. “This is just soda.”
“What!” I exclaim, my arm flying out to the side as I inspect the traitor’s glass a little more carefully.
“I’m not drinking either,” Julia says then, nodding toward her untouched cosmopolitan and grabbing my forearm. She looks up at me through her long-as-fuck lashes as she rubs a hand over her stomach. “I can’t.”
I don’t know what the fuck she’s doing or if she’s gassy or something, but when she keeps rubbing at her stomach, my own pitches to the side.She’s not saying she’s baking a fucking kid, is she?Surely I’m fucking mishearing things because of some earwax-buildup bullshit.
My dad had earwax buildup five years ago, and it drove mymom fucking nuts. He couldn’t hear for shit. Well, it’s either that or he lied about the whole thing and spent two months acting like he couldn’t hear anything my mom was telling him. Truthfully, knowing my prank-loving father, it could go either way.
“You’re…you’re pregnant?” Scottie asks, her voice jilted. Immediately, my hopes of clogged ears are dashed, and a red mist vaporizes my lungs.
What…the…fuck. Last I checked, housing a kid in your uterus requires a cock and balls or a turkey baster, and the idea of either one in Julia’stunnelis making me feel like cosplaying my good buddy Finnley for a little while.
