Very Bad Things (Briarcrest Academy #1)(45)

Dance girl looked away, her expression seeming unconcerned with Cuba’s attentions.

A waiter walked by with a tray of shooters. Glad for the distraction, I grabbed two, dance girl grabbed two, and Cuba took the whole tray. We chuckled as the waiter took one look at Cuba’s girth and backed away.

I smiled and took the tray from him, sitting it in my lap. “Just what the doctor ordered,” I said, counting out twenty-one lemon drop shots in my head. “That’s seven a piece, guys,” I told them, dividing them out on the tray. The tart scent of lemons hit me as I took five of mine, one after the other, shuddering after each one.

“Yeah!” I called out, tossing the last empty glass to the floor, smiling as they clinked together. These were way better than the vodka.

“Whoa,” dance girl squealed. “You’re nothing like I thought.”

“Thanks,” I said, pleased.

As she took a shot, I checked out dance girl some more.

I made eye contact. “Hi. I don’t think we know each other? I’m Nora Blakely, sometimes referred to as the smartest kid at BA, although I’m not. That particular crown belongs to Drew Mansfield, the jerk that dumped me last year . . . but I digress . . . who are you?”

She smiled. “I’m Bridget. And I know who you are. I voted for you last year for class president. I can’t stand Emma Easton, and you seemed nice. Cuba says you’re pretty cool,” she said, tossing one back.

I grinned widely. “You’re not part of the Emma fan club?”

She laughed hard, like I’d just told the best joke ever. “Nope. She screwed around with my boyfriend freshman year, so yeah, I can’t stand her. I’m only here for the free booze and for Cuba, of course.”

My eyes went back and forth between them, trying to figure out if they were friends or lovers. She was sitting in his lap, looking all cozy. Yet, he was staring at me like I was his favorite dessert. I sighed. I wanted them to be friends, like I was with Sebastian; I wanted Cuba to be mine tonight.

“Bridget is a pretty name,” I commented, while Cuba leaned back and seemed to watch our bonding with bemusement. “So, let me ask you: how do you spell Bridget? Do you use a fancy spelling, like the French version, B-r-i-d-g-e-t-t-e? Please, tell me you don’t. If you do that’s fine, but I met this one girl tonight. She’s Tiffani-with-an-i, and she’s dating this guy I know and she’s a . . . well, I haven’t exactly decided what she is yet, but I will.”

“No, silly, I spell it the regular way,” she slurred, slapping me on the arm, like we were friends already.

She took another shot and let out a big belch. I laughed, fascinated by her carefree spirit. I bet Bridget had a ton of happy stories.

“Why are you staring at me?” she asked, snickering into her glass.

“Have we ever had a class together?” I asked, curious about her.

“Please. I barely pass the classes I have now, and you’re in like all the AP courses, so no,” she said, giggling, which didn’t make much sense, but I guess when you’re drunk, everything’s funny.

“How many have you had?” I said, giggling along with her.

She never answered; she leaned her head back on Cuba’s shoulder and closed her eyes. Bridget, without the fancy spelling, was out.

“She’s had way too many,” Cuba told me, easing his arm around her so she wouldn’t slip off.

“Are you with her?” I asked, the alcohol making my tongue loose.

“Yeah,” he shrugged. “But it doesn’t matter. If you want me, I’m yours.”

What? But, but what about Bridget I wanted to yell at him! She’s his girl tonight and a potential new friend to me. And wasn’t she wearing his jersey? Yes, yes, and yes. I sighed with disappointment. “No thanks,” I said and stood up, weaving from the quick movement.

“Wait a minute, Nora,” he said, easing Bridget from his lap and propping her up against the other side of the couch. He grasped my hand and pulled me back down until I was pressed tight against his side. And it wasn’t unpleasant. His body was hard and muscled from playing football and he smelled delicious, the spicy scent of his cologne teasing my nose. He took my leg and pulled it up onto his, until I was facing and half-way straddling him. If anyone looked, they would have seen my underwear. I didn’t stop him.

“I want you tonight,” he said, rubbing my exposed thigh, his nose running up my neck. “Bridget and I aren’t exclusive, and she doesn’t mind sharing . . . or watching if you want.”

“I see.” No, I didn’t. Not really.

I suddenly felt hot and sticky, and my head had started to hurt a little, maybe because my woozy brain was having a hard time processing his words. Why had I killed all those shots? “Cuba, I’m afraid you’ll need to tell it to me straight, because it’s possible I’m hallucinating here. Are you suggesting you actually be with us both . . . like a threesome?” I said, whispering out the last part.

He chuckled at my lowered voice. “Tonight it could just be me and you. Maybe if she sobers up, we’ll invite Bridget?”

I spent several seconds in a daze, looking him over, absorbing his unruly black hair, the caramel complexion, and those beautiful eyes. And somewhere in the middle of gazing into his eyes, I imagined I saw a similar sadness in his, much like my own reflected back at me. Who was this guy? Maybe he had dark secrets, too? The kind that could destroy him if anyone found out?