Time blurred under the lights. Maggie let Danica and Kiera whirl her until her lungs burned, until sweat dampened the sash Danica had forced over her shoulders. The musicshifted again, a pulsing remix of something early 2000s, and before she could catch her breath, Pete and Izzy barreled onto the floor like a wrecking crew.
Pete zeroed in on the still lingering Cowboy Hat instantly. “Well, howdy there, partner,” she drawled in the worst fake accent Maggie had ever heard. She yanked the hat clean off his head and plopped it on her own, grinning like she’d just won a prize pig at a county fair.
The guy didn’t even seem to mind. He laughed, clapping his hands, clearly charmed by Pete’s chaos.
Pete threw one arm around Izzy, spinning her in a dizzy circle, then shoved her toward Maggie. “Spin her, cowboy style.”
Izzy, already laughing too hard, twirled Maggie sloppily, nearly knocking into Kiera, who squeaked but managed to stay upright.
“Yeehaw!” Pete bellowed, switching partners again, grabbing Danica by both hands and swinging her wildly until her sash nearly flew off.
“Pete,” Danica shrieked, laughing so hard she could barely stand.
Pete tipped the cowboy hat low over her eyes and did a terrible boot-scootin’ shuffle in the middle of the crowd. “Ladies, you’re all lookin’ mighty fine tonight,” she said in a bad Southern baritone. “Step right up, I’ll twirl ya proper.”
And she did — one by one, spinning Maggie, then Kiera, then Izzy, then Danica again, each turn wilder than the last.
By the time Pete yanked Cowboy Hat guy himself into the circle, twirling him so fast the whole dance floor cheered, Maggie was doubled over, gasping with laughter.
For a few minutes, the jealousy and the ache slipped out of focus, lost in the chaos of Pete’s hat-stealing rodeo routine.
Maggie’s legs were rubbery and her cheeks hurt from laughing. This last bar was a Coyote Ugly knockoff — sticky floors, twangy music blasting from blown-out speakers, andbartenders in cutoff denim dancing on the bar with bottles raised like weapons, women dancing beside them.
“Don’t you dare,” Gwen’s voice said faintly behind her, steady, warning, drowned out by the music.
Maggie grinned, wild and reckless, and promptly hauled herself onto the bar anyway.
The crowd whooped, the bartenders cheering her on like she’d passed initiation. One slid a half-empty bottle her way, and before Gwen’s voice could even cut through again, Maggie tipped her head back and let the liquor pour straight from the spout into her mouth.
The burn hit instantly — sharp, sweet, wrong. Mystery alcohol. Rum, maybe. Whiskey. She didn’t care.
The room roared approval. Pete was pounding on the bar like she’d just witnessed the second coming. Kiera buried her face in Izzy’s shoulder, half laughing, half mortified. Danica was shouting something Maggie couldn’t hear but looked suspiciously like her full name.
Maggie wiped her mouth with the back of her hand, tiara slipping sideways, arms thrown wide. “Vegas, baby!” she shouted, her voice ragged, her grin blinding.
As the song ended, she crouched to climb down from the bar. Strong arms swept around her waist, steady and sure, pulling her down before she could wobble on her heels.
Gwen’s arms.
The crowd whooped, but Gwen barely glanced at them, her focus only on Maggie as she set her back on solid ground, one hand still braced at her hip. “You doing okay?” she asked, low enough that only Maggie could hear.
Maggie’s heart lurched at the gentleness, at the steadiness, at how much she wanted to collapse into it. Instead, the bitterness ripped out of her, sharp and ugly.
“Where’s Lillian?” she snapped. “Aren’t you more interested in her tonight?”
Gwen blinked at her, slow and steady. “I’m asking aboutyou,” Gwen said finally, voice even, almost swallowed by the roar of Shania Twain blaring from the speakers.
Maggie laughed, sharp and ugly. “Sure. Because you’re suddenly so concerned.” She tried to wrench her arm back, but Gwen’s grip on her elbow tightened just slightly —not rough, but not soft either. Just like she knew Maggie was a flight risk and had no intention of letting her bolt into the neon.
Behind them, Pete was trying to convince Danica that riding the mechanical bull was a good idea. Izzy was egging her on with solemn nods, as if this were a sacred rite. Danica had her phone out, recording the chaos. Kiera was trying to wrangle them toward the exit. The whole scene buzzed with laughter, shouting, stomping boots.
And still, Maggie could only hear Gwen’s voice. Low, careful. Always careful.
“You’re drunk,” Gwen said.
“No shit,” Maggie snapped. “That was sort of the point of a party.”
Gwen’s mouth twitched — whether with irritation or something softer, Maggie couldn’t tell. God, she hated that she still looked for softness.
