Bad Girl Reputation (Avalon Bay #2)(78)

He’s cute, in a Disney Channel punk rock sort of way. The kid who grew up with parents that encouraged his creative endeavors and put out a plate of fresh-baked cookies while he did homework. I’ll never understand the well-adjusted.

“Oh.” Trina’s carnivorous grin flattens to a grimace. “Well, no one’s perfect.”

We take the invitation, nonetheless, if only because it’s the closest restroom that doesn’t require a purchase in advance. Together, Trina and I stand in line down a dingy hallway covered in framed concert photographs and graffiti. It smells of cheap liquor, mildew, and perfume-scented sweat. “You realize you’ve probably jinxed that poor guy, right?” I tell her.

“Please.”

“Seriously. You just put ten years of bad mojo on him. What if he was supposed to become the next great American bassist? Now he’s going to end up vacuuming baseboards at the Spit Shine car wash.”

“The world needs bass players,” she says. “But I can’t be responsible for their misplaced notions of fuckability.”

“Paul McCartney played bass.”

“That’s like saying Santa is fuckable. That’s nasty, Gen.”

Six women stumble out of the single-toilet restroom, sloppy and laughing. Trina and I take our turn. She splashes water on her face while I pee.

After we’ve both finished up and washed our hands, Trina pulls a small compact out of her purse. Under it is a little plastic baggie of white powder. She dips her finger in to gather some in her nail and snort it up her nose. Takes another up the other nostril, then spreads the excess on her teeth, sucking them dry.

“Want a bump?” She offers the compact to me.

“I’m good.”

Cocaine was never my vice. I smoked plenty and drank like a sailor. Dropped acid every now and then. But I was never tempted by the harder stuff.

“Oh, come on.” She tries shoving it at me. “I haven’t said anything all night, but your sobriety is starting to become a buzzkill.”

I shrug. “I think you’ve got enough buzz for both of us.”

Big saucer eyes plead with me. “Just one little hit. Then I’ll shut up.”

“But then who’s going to stop you from going home with some middle-aged car salesman?”

“You make a good point, West.” Backing off, she snaps the compact shut and drops it in her purse.

To each their own. Trina gets no judgment from me. We all have our coping mechanisms, and I’m in no position to fault anyone for theirs. Just not my bag.

“So this straight-edge thing,” she muses as we exit the restroom and scout a good table for the show. “You serious about that?”

We spot a two-seater high-top beside the stage and make a beeline to snag it.

I nod slowly. “ Yeah, I think so.”

I’m rather proud of myself, in fact. A whole night together, and I’ve yet to hop on a table or steal a pedicab. I’m still having a good time, not once missing a drink. That’s progress.

Lifting a flask from her purse, Trina nods. “Cheers to that, then. May your liver bring you many years of health and prosperity.”

Hell, if Trina can accept the new me, maybe there’s hope yet. Maybe I really can make this change stick, and I’m not simply fooling myself.

Our party swells during the concert. A group of friends we went to high school with wander by our table and pull up a few stools. Some, like Colby and Debra, I hadn’t seen in years. When the second act of the night turns out to be a ’90s one-hit-wonder cover band, the entire place goes bonkers, everyone singing slurred, slightly wrong lyrics at the tops of our lungs. We’re all breathless and hoarse by the time Trina and the rest of the group go outside to the smoking patio, while I babysit her purse at the bar and order a very big glass of ice water. I pull out my phone to find a missed text from Evan earlier in the night.

Evan: You haven’t asked for bail yet. Good sign?

I have to admit, he was right. Meeting up with Trina turned out to be an affirming experience. Hardly the catastrophe I’d worked it up to be in my head. But I’m definitely not going to tell him that. Evan doesn’t need any ego stroking from me.

Me: We’re on 95 with a one-eyed bounty hunter and his pet wolverine hot on our trail. Send snacks.

When I feel a hand tap me on the shoulder, I’m impressed Evan managed to track us down. But then I turn around and am met with the dark, pleated polyester of a sheriff’s deputy uniform and the potbelly of Rusty Randall.

“Genevieve West.” He grabs my wrist and roughly jerks it behind my back. “You’re under arrest.”

My jaw drops. “Seriously? For what?”

I’m pulled off my stool, struggling to find my feet. People around us retreat, some taking out their phones to record. Camera flashes blind me while my brain stutters to understand what’s happening.

“Possession of a controlled substance.” He wrenches my other arm behind my back, where metal cuffs bite into my skin. Deputy Randall grabs Trina’s purse, picking through it, until he pulls out the compact and opens it to reveal the baggie of cocaine.

“That’s not even my purse!” I shout, my head spinning with the instinct to run or fight or … something. I look desperately at the door to the smoking patio.

Wrapping his hand around my biceps, he leans close to my ear and whispers, “Should’ve left town while you had the chance.”