She pouts, pushing a ratty tangle of hair from her eyes. “Already? We just got here. I was just getting to know Colt.”
“Cole,” I correct.
“That’s what I said. Cold.”
“I have a fitting in the morning bright and early and recording after. Come have a sleepover with me like old times? I’ll have someone arrange for McDonald’s breakfast to bewaiting for us.” I try my tried-and-true go-to: appeal to her drunk stomach that seems to be stuck in the ninth grade. And it works.
“Yes, please! Extra cheese, extra orange juice, extra hashbrowns.”
I know what she’s saying, but half of it is garbled, though her excitement is loud and clear. Grabbing her hand, I guide her toward the door, my phone at the ready. I have to get ahold of Gustav. We need to go. I’ve seen Joss like this many times before, and it’s only a matter of time before her legs stop working. Decker is nowhere to be found, his bedroom dark at the end of the long hall as we pass it to reach the door. I’ll have to text him too. I make a mental note to do that as I reach for the knob.
“Hey. You guys good?” Decker asks.
I turn to find him emerging from the dark hall. “Hey. I was about to text you. Joss is kind of hungry, and I need to wake up early for that fitting. I’ll see you soon.”
His brow twitches almost undetectably, and then he smiles. “See you soon.”
“KISSSSS!” Joss hisses the command, her words slurring even more than they were moments ago. She laughs so hard she falls back into the door.
“Here. Let me help you guys out. I’ll call Ives. He can drive you,” Decker says, scooping an arm around Joss to stabilize her.
She leans over and gives me a wink and a clumsy thumbs up. We maneuver down the hall toward the gilded elevator.
“Thanks for the help,” I finally say.
“Yeah. Thanksss.” Joss squeezes one of Decker’s pecks, and I have to admit, I’m almost as jealous as I am mortified.
“I’m so sorry,” I tell him.
Decker holds back a laugh. “Don’t apologize. You’re not the one feeling me up.”
His eyes linger on mine a little too long, and I wonder if he’s thinking about minutes ago when I basically was doing just that.
There’s a click and a flash and a four-letter word. We spin to see a photographer pop out from a nook by the stairwell, staring down at his camera, cursing the flash.
“We’re not photo ready right now,” I say sternly but sweetly. I always try sprinkling on the sugar first. Decker… not so much.
“Hey, dingleberry. This is a private building.” Decker steps in front of us, but Joss is still attached to him, so she just kinda flops behind him momentarily in his attempt to shield us.
“He said dingleberry.” She snorts, pressing a hand over her mouth.
“I was visiting someone,” the photographer argues.
“Visiting hours are over,” Decker grinds out.
“There are no visiting hours.” The photographer sounds bored as he pulls a phone from his pocket and lifts it to face us. Apparently, it’s his backup plan.
“There are tonight. You need to leave,” Decker seethes.
He steps forward and Joss shifts her weight so it’s resting on me as his arm slides from holding her. His shoulders square as he moves toward the photographer. As much as I appreciate him keeping the paparazzi away, I don’t know what he’s doing. Sure, this could be bad for our image—adults stumbling out of a party like they’re some kind of drunken teenagers—gasp!—but we want people to see us. Our entire relationship hinges on how many people see us. On how many people believe us.
I want to use this to our advantage, to step forward and be the girl who calms the wild beast before he does something he can’t take back. I contemplate how to do that while keeping Joss upright, but before I can resolve the issue, there’s a gagging sound and a splatter. Something warm splashes over my bare legs. Joss's groan is enough for me to know what happened without looking at the carnage.
“Ah, sick! Your friend just puked on you!” the photographer says gleefully, swinging his phone in our direction.
I’m frozen like a vomit-drenched deer in headlights.
Decker mumbles a curse as the photographer carries on about how great this all is. In a second flat, the paparazzi’s phone is in Decker’s hand and then flying straight into the putrid puddle below.
