Page 33 of The Life and (Medieval) Times of Kit Sweetly

“What do you want?”

“I’m congratulating you for getting the entire Castle in trouble. Thanks to you, we’re under review. I heard Len talking with one of the bosses before tonight’s show.”

“That’s bullshit.” I refuse to believe it. The alcohol makes my head fuzzy, but even so I can see how ridiculous the idea is. “They wouldn’t close us down just because I fought once.”

“You’re precious.” Dalton lurches toward me and I sidestep him. “It’s not all about you. Don’t you follow the stock market? This place has been going downhill for years. Fewer and fewer people come to our shows. That’s why they’re desperately pandering for ideas to salvage this dump. Trust me, they’re going to close down the whole company within the year. And your little stunt has put us more on Corporate’s radar. They’re coming here in two weeks—on Friday the thirteenth, of course—to see if we should be shut down immediately. I don’t need this job, but I bet your brother doesn’t feel the same way.”

I lunge at Dalton, but the booze makes me slow, and I trip over my feet and stumble into the wall. “Don’t talk about my brother! I’ll smash your face this time.”

“Such a lady,” declares a South Side of Chicago–accented voice behind me.

I spin around. Jessica stands a few feet away, dressed in jeans and a sparkly tank top. She’s got two Big Gulp cups of punch in her hands.

“What do you want?” I repeat the question I threw at Dalton moments ago. Apparently drinking too much makes me slow and dries up my wit.

Jessica sets the glasses down and mock curtsies. “Nothing more than to see the great Kit Sweetly in action.” She can’t even keep a straight face as she says it, and Dalton cracks up.

To think that I ever thought this girl was cool. When she and Chris first started dating, she taught me how to do a fishtail braid and we would all watch movies together. I cringe to admit that I looked up to her at one point.

“I never said I was a lady! And you’re wrong about this place, Dalton. It won’t close. There’s too much love for the Castle to shut these doors.”

It’s hardly a mic drop, but before they can reply, I storm away. Their laughter follows me outside. A warm breeze lifts my hair as I step into a smokers’ circle on the lawn behind the Castle. A handful of Serving Wenches, cooks, a few Squires, and some of the other Castle underlings drink from clear plastic cups, laughing and telling filthy jokes. An orange five-gallon cooler sits on a rusted chair, its fading high school track team logo a testament to better times. More Castle staff stand around the door, putting back punch like it’s water. I pour a drink from the cooler—electric red with a smell like nail polish remover—and bum a cigarette. Not too many people have noticed me yet, and, needing a moment alone, I step away from the group and smoke at the edge of the parking lot.

I love this little family of weirdos, and it cannot all go away. It’s too perfect. Too magical. Too much mine. We cannot lose the Castle.

I inhale deeply, trying to calm my anger at Dalton, and throw back the cup of punch. It burns its way into my gut, but I don’t care. This could be our last Ninja afterparty. Drinking too much, like smoking, comes with the restaurant territory. It’s half escape, half desperate grasping at an elusive greater-grander something that’s far away from grubby milk crates and crappy shifts. With a belly full of booze, life is dance clubs and beaches on the Mediterranean and—

The roar of a motorcycle cuts into the alcohol-frosted tumble of my thoughts, slicing them in half. The noise grows louder as Jett pulls up on the Triumph, looking cool as goddamn Brad Pitt. He waves at me as he backs the bike into a parking space. My perfidious heart bungee jumps into my stomach, and I take another steadying drag of my smoke.

Sure, I’m glad he’s here. Why wouldn’t I want my other best friend to hang out with me at a super-wild party when I’m already more than half drunk?

Steady, Sweetly. You can do this. Be cool.

It’s basically a slow-motion movie star scene as Jett walks toward me in his vintage black leather jacket, jeans, and motorcycle boots. One of the other Serving Wenches wolf whistles, and he grins, his teeth flashing white against the gorgeous brown of his skin. A shock of hair falls into his eyes and he sort of shakes it out. Which would make me gag if anyone else did it, but on him, it looks natural.

“Fancy meeting you here,” he says, stopping beside me. He nudges me with his shoulder. “Also, you’re staring.”

“Just admiring your entrance,” I say, in what has to be the world’s worst attempt at being cool.

“Really?” There’s a note of skepticism in Jett’s voice. He reaches for my cup and takes a long swig of the punch. He makes a face as it goes down.

“Really,” I say, failing to keep a quaver out of my voice. For fuck’s sake. I sound like my junior high self, trying to talk to a cute boy. Ridiculous. I stomp out my cigarette and look away. “You practically had all the Serving Wenches begging for your number.”

“Ahhh,” he says. “I’m not really into dating Serving Wenches.”

There it is. The truth laid bare between us. I’m slowly falling hard for Jett and he’s nowhere near into me.

“Of course not,” I say, giving him a little shove. “That would be preposterous.”

He nods quickly. “Totally. How’s phase one going?”

“Done and we’re on to phase two. Recruitment! Alex, Penny, Mags, Lizzy, and a few others are in. Can you start filming on Monday?”

“I’m watching my brothers for part of the day since they’re off school. But I’ll make it work.”

He looks at me through what can only be described as a fringe of eyelashes.

He’s so close I can see the eyelash stuck to his cheekbone. I go to brush it off, but my stupid drunk self somehow stumbles into him. And then my arm is around his waist.