The messages are finally opened.
Three minutes tick by as I suck down another cocktail, my heels tip-tapping against the floor, but he leaves me on read.
My eyes narrow at the screen.
I’m pondering which collection of emojis I can ambush him with when Kenna materializes on my left, a scarlet vision. Bold cherry lips, ruby nails, and a shocking red cocktail dress.
I adore her.
“I adore you!” I announce, throwing my arms around her neck, momentarily distracted. “Your hair is so lovely. You smell like a symphony of citrus. I think we should dance.”
My best friend hugs me back, snickering into my loose waves of hair.
She knows I get like this every time I drink—touchy-feely and high on life, a cornucopia of eternal love bursting at the seams.
“It’s after eleven,” Kenna says, glancing at her Apple Watch. “We should probably head out.”
“What?” I straighten to full height, which is at least five inches taller than her. “We still have a couple hours until last call.”
“We both have an early shift tomorrow. Tag’s here to drive you home.”
My face sours. I glance over my shoulder at my brother, who is collapsed on a high-top table, looking miserable. “You texted him to pick me up, didn’t you?”
“Perchance.”
“Traitor.”
“Alex will rage if you get home too late. I’m just looking out for you.”
I’m instantly reminded of the text messages that went ignored. A wave of tension sweeps through me, triggering my thumbs again.
Me:Are you there??
Finally, his bubbles dance to life, and I hold my breath.
Alex:Where are you?
Me:We’re still at Sand Bar.
Alex:Unbelievable. You’re on the clock tomorrow at 6:30.
Me:Good thing that’s seven hours from now. You know I’m a night owl. Also, you didn’t answer my question…
A few seconds pass.
A ping.
Alex:Drink some water.
Before I can register the response, a hand flies out and snatches my phone away. “Hey!”
Tag stuffs the device into his back pocket, spearing me with a look of immense aggravation. His dirty blond hair glimmers under the strobe lights, a stark contrast to mine, considering mine has been dyed every shade imaginableover the years. Bubblegum pink, electric blue, even an unfortunate attempt at swamp green.
Currently, it’s what some people call “bronde,” striped with lively purple streaks.
“Drunk texting never ends well,” he says.
“I was in the middle of a conversation.”
