David blinks, like it takes him a second to figure out what I’m even saying. He gives his head a subtle shake, and then he’s back. His shoulders relax and his lips default into their unapologetic, vaguely amused smirk. “What about your gown?” he teases, his smirk growing exponentially, its familiarity relaxing me instantly.
“Thought I’d save it to wear to class tomorrow instead.”
David laughs. “Good idea, Bea. You look perfect, anyway.”
It’s a throwaway comment, but it heats my cheeks and warms my insides. “So do you,” I admit.
“I try.”
I’m exceptionally aware of David’s body heat as I skate around him so he can lock the front door behind us, and I’m almost positive I hear him mutter something to himself that sounds suspiciously like “Fuck. Me.”
* * *
“Are you guys having a party tonight?” I ask when we pull up in front of David’s frat house. There aren’t that many cars here, and I’m not sure why he’d have me dress up just to hang out at the BEG house.
“Nope.” No elaboration.
He grips my shoulder to stop me when I reach for the door handle, but before I can ask him why, the door behind me opens and Reeve and Steven Bogart climb into the backseat.
“Hey, kid,” Reeve’s low, perpetually expressionless voice greets me as he slides behind David. I still can’t quite get a read on him, but he seems earnest—if still a little dark, somehow. But he appears to be a loyal friend to David, and he’s been nothing but kind to me, so I should probably cut him some slack.
“Hi…” I murmur back, drawing out the word as I look to David for answers.
“Damn, girl,” Steven vaguely slurs. He perches himself on the edge of the middle seat so he can lean forward over the console, taking up way too much space in the process. “You look good enough to eat. You sure clean up nice, but I bet you’d look even better—”
David grabs Steven’s face with an open palm, shoving him away from me, and Steven bellows his laughter as his back hits leather. The sharp scent of vodka assails my senses. It’s faint, but the all-too-familiar scent is enough to summon memories of my father at his worst, and my pulse takes off in fight or flight—my response conditioned, having been beaten, quite literally, not into me, but into my loved ones during my formative years.
“I see you got started early,” David says dryly, giving me the time to take a few deep breaths and sort myself out.
“Been pre-gaming since six, homie!” Steven replies in his corny bro-voice.
David ignores him and pulls away from the house, heading toward town.
“Will someone tell me where we’re going?” I try an old move that has never worked on David, but that Steven seems to be the perfect mark for. “Because if you guys are taking me somewhere lame…”
“Hot Box isn’t fucking lame!” Steven feigns shock and I grin with self-satisfaction.
David shakes his head at his friend’s easy, unwitting slipup, the corner of his mouth pulling into the rogue smirk that never fails to make my insides somersault, and he shoots me a sideways glance before returning his eyes to the road.
Steven grips my shoulder and starts rubbing like he’s soothing away my idiocy for suggesting that Hot Box—whatever the hell that is—might be lame. “Don’t worry, kid. You’re still new. It’s not your fault,” he teases, barely pausing to chuckle when David’s right hand flies from the steering wheel to slap Steven’s from my shoulder. “Don’t worry, we’re almost there. Then we’ll see how lame you think the hottest club outside Manhattan is.”
My gaze swings to David’s, but he keeps his eyes trained carefully on the road ahead. His smirk is gone, in favor of his rare earnest smile.
He’s taking me dancing.
* * *
According to my phone—or, more accurately, Google—Hot Box is the only popular nightclub in town. Which would explain the long line of trendy clothes and pushed-up cleavage snaking its way from the parking lot.
David leads us right up to the velvet rope, ignoring the line altogether, like he knows his place and a line isn’t it.
And it appears he’s right. The bouncer greets him like an old friend with that handshake-half-hug thing men do, and Steven starts questioning the guy about the girls that have already showed up tonight and the ones he’s still expecting, as if they’re on the drink menu or something.
I linger just behind them, zoning right out of their conversation. My brain is already inside the club, losing myself to the music, and I practically bounce on my heels with impatience as they continue to stand around and chat like a bunch of old yentas.
I pick at my nail polish to distract from my own impatience, focusing on the music instead. Even from the sidewalk, I can make out the hook from the new Rihanna song blaring on a loop as the DJ beat-matches a classic hip-hop record I’ve no doubt David could tell me the name, artist, and release year of.
I’m already so lost to the beat that I don’t immediately realize our group has finally stopped yapping about the something Delta something party that apparently got cancelled, and is actually moving past the coveted velvet ropes, until the crowd’s envious shouts break through my trance.
