“Andyou started without me,” he says, nodding at the Solo cup in my hand.
I shrug. “You’re late.”
He steals my beer and takes a long swig and then tugs me in closer, pressing a big kiss to the side of my head.
I laugh, pushing him away. “Get the fuck off me, you dipshit.”
“Happy birthday, man.” He lifts his fist and I bump it then slide our palms together for our secret handshake. “Silver Spoon Survivors’ Club?”
“Founding members.”
A girl appears at Art’s elbow. Stephanie something. Actually, I’m pretty sure I fucked her junior year in the janitor’s closet, but I can’t remember for sure. She touches his arm like she’s staking a claim. “Art, we’re doing shots by the water. You should come.”
Her eyes slide to me for half a second, then away.
“Nah, I’m good here. Maybe later.”
Stephanie’s grin falters, but she recovers fast. “Okay. Find me when you’re ready.”
She disappears back into the crowd, and Art turns to me, rolling his eyes. “She’s been on me all week. I think her dad wants to merge families or some shit.”
“Could be worse.” I say. “She’s hot.”
“She’s boring.”
“The sacrifices of being a nice guy.”
“Yeah, you’re right.” He turns to me with a smile. “But at least my girls pretend to be interested in conversation first.”
“That’s because they want to marry you. They just want to fuck me.”
“And you’re complaining?”
“Did I say I was complaining?”
He laughs, shoving me, and I shove him back, and for a minute it’s just us. The way it’s always been. The mayor’s perfect son and the Calloway fuckup, best friends since birth, brothers by choice if not by blood.
People don’t understand it. I don’t fully understand it, either.
Art could have anyone. He could run with the golden crowd, the future politicians and CEOs and country club kids who would help his image instead of hurting it. Hell, literallyanyof my siblings would fit that mold. But for some reason, he chose me, and he keeps choosing me, even when I make it hard.
“Hey.” He nudges me. “You good? You’ve got that look.”
“What look?”
“The one that tells me you’ll end the night either fighting or fucking.”
“Night’s young, haven’t picked yet.”
“Just don’t get arrested again. Last time, I had to listen to a thirty-minute lecture about ‘the company I keep’,” he says.
“What’d you tell him?”
“That you’re a bad influence and I’m trying to save your soul.”
“How noble of you.”
“I’m basically a saint.” He throws an arm around my shoulders again, steering me toward the keg. “Listen, I’ve gotta talkto you later, but right now, I want to be drunk enough that your bad decisions rub off on me.”
