Good Girl Complex(Avalon Bay #1)(10)

While I pay the least possible attention to this dude, whose job is to entertain the “friend,” his two buddies eat out of Bonnie’s hand all the way to the dance floor. I occasionally nod and glance up from my phone as he valiantly attempts conversation that we both must know is useless against the band’s set list blasting at full volume.

About forty minutes after the wingman has crept away, an arm catches mine. “I’m bored. Let’s ditch these guys,” Bonnie says in my ear.

“Yes.” I nod emphatically. “Please.”

She mimes some excuse to the two guys still clinging to her heels like ducklings, and then we pick up our drinks and take a circuitous route to the stairs. On the second floor, looking down at the live band on the stage, we find a table with a little more breathing room. It’s quieter up here. Enough that we can carry on a conversation without shouting or resorting to rudimentary sign language.

“Not doing it for you?” I ask, referring to her latest victims.

“I can get those meatheads a dime a dozen at home. Can’t throw a rock without hitting a college football player.”

I grin over the rim of my glass. The fruity cocktail isn’t exactly my jam, but it’s what Bonnie asked her suitors to buy for us. “So what’s your type, then?”

“Tattoos. Tall, dark, and damaged. The more emotionally unavailable, the better.” She beams. “If he’s got a juvenile rap sheet and motorcycle, I’m open for business.”

I almost choke on my tongue laughing. Fascinating. She doesn’t seem like that kind of girl. “Maybe we ought to go find a bar with more Harleys outside. I’m not sure we’re going to find what you’re looking for in here.”

From what I can tell, it’s slim pickings. Mostly Garnet students, which skew toward country club types or frat bros, and a few beach rat townies in tank tops. None of whom approach Bonnie’s leather-and-studs daydreams.

“Oh, I done my research,” she says proudly. “Rumor has it, Avalon Bay’s got exactly what I need. The Hartley Twins.”

I raise an eyebrow. “Twins, huh?”

“Locals,” she says, nodding. “But I’m not greedy. One’ll do fine. Figure my odds are improved with a spare.”

“And these Hartley twins tick all of your bad boy boxes?”

“Oh yeah. I heard about their exploits from some girls on campus.” She licks her lips. “I wanna be one of those exploits tonight.”

Humor bubbles in my throat. This girl. “You don’t even know these guys. What if they’re hideous?”

“They aren’t. Their names wouldn’t be comin’ outta every girl’s mouth if they were.” She sighs happily. “Besides, that girl down the hall from us—Nina? Dina? Whatever her name is. She showed me a picture of ’em and don’t you worry, Miss Mac, they are fine.”

My laughter spills over. “Alright. Got it. I’ll keep my eye out for a pair of bad boy clones.”

“Thank you. Now, what about you?”

“Me?”

“Yes, you.”

“I’m not in the market for a bad boy, no.” My phone lights up again with a text from Preston telling me his next game is about to start.

Another thing I appreciate about Pres is routine, predictability. I prefer things that act within expected parameters. I’m a planner. An organizer. A boyfriend that’s running all over town at all hours wouldn’t fit in my life. Then again, I don’t get the impression that Bonnie is in the market for a long-term investment. Maybe something more like a microtransaction.

“I’m just sayin’.” Bonnie winks. “This is a circle of trust. I’d never snitch on a roomie if she wanted to entertain a little on the side.”

“I appreciate it, but I’m good. Pres and I are loyal to each other.” I wouldn’t have done the whole long-distance thing if I wasn’t confident we could be faithful. Now that we’re both at Garnet, cheating would be even more pointless.

She looks at me a little cross-eyed then smiles in a way that’s a bit patronizing, though I know she doesn’t mean it. “So you’re really the relationship type?”

“Yeah.” I’ve only been with Preston, but even if it were someone else, monogamy is my thing. “I don’t understand the point of cheating. If you want to be with other people, be single. Don’t drag someone else along for the ride.”

“Well, cheers to knowin’ what we want and goin’ after it.” Bonnie raises her glass. We toast, then suck our cocktails dry. “Come on,” she says, “let’s get outta here. I got twins to hunt.”

She’s not joking. For the next two hours, I find myself trailing behind Bonnie as if I’ve got a dick-sniffing bloodhound on a leash. She drags me from one bar to the next in search of her elusive twins, leaving countless mesmerized victims in her wake. One poor loser after another throwing himself at her feet, slayed by her dimples. I’ve never had trouble attracting attention from guys, but standing next to Bonnie May Beauchamp, I might as well be a broken barstool. Good thing I have a boyfriend, or else I’d develop a complex.

As much as I want to help Bonnie in her crusade to locate and destroy her townie bad boy, the sidekick routine gets tedious as the night wears on. If she doesn’t tire herself out soon, there’s a chance I’ll need to club her over the head.