Open Road Summer(25)

I’m speechless. He’s already heading back toward the club door with this jaunty, hands-in-pockets walk. He violated my personal space and at least five social boundaries, yet he walks away with a pep in his step. I grasp around my purse for something to throw at him, but all I have is the crumpled-up receipt from the bodega and a few coins. They’ll have to do.

It’s not even the heavier coins—only pennies and a dime or two—but at least one of them hits the side of his leg. The others drop to the sidewalk, landing like metallic hail.

Matt feigns a gasp as he turns around. He gathers his shirt as if he’s overexposed, and huffs loudly. “I am not for sale, lady.”

Everyone outside looks at me like I’m deranged. Matt Finch is obnoxious and over the line and smug as hell. Before I can yell back, he shoots me a grin and trots back into the club.

Shit. I want that stupid song to be about me.

I stay outside for the length of another slowly smoked cigarette, both to spite him and regain my composure. A guy wanders over to hit on me, and I entertain the possibility for a while before getting bored with him. I figured Dee would come out and scold me about smoking eventually, but she hasn’t even sent me a passive-aggressive text message. It’s been over forty-five minutes. Maybe she’s mad that I left her.

As I slip back into the bar, it’s clear that the crowd has nearly doubled, with thumping music to replace Matt’s acoustic session. There are even people on the dance floor, channeling that fifth beer into swaying hips and flailing arms.

I scan the crowds, but I can’t spot Dee. Without her telltale blond hair, she’s much harder to pick out of a crowd. I dial her number, holding my casted hand over my ear to hear better, but all I hear is ringing and then voice mail. I’m beginning to wonder if she left without me because she’s always pissy about my smoking. As I look down to dial Mack, Matt finds me.

“Hey.” He touches my elbow lightly. “Have you seen Dee?”

“No!” I throw my arms up in exasperation. “I’m, like, starting to get worried here.”

Matt’s mouth goes ajar, eyes wide, like he didn’t even hear me. I follow his line of vision to the dance floor, where some frat boy with too much product in his hair is attempting to grind all over a thin brunette. A thin brunette wearing my clothes.

“Shit,” I mumble, pushing toward her quickly, and Matt’s right behind me. I know she’s drunk even before I get close enough to smell the liquor radiating off her breath.

“Okay.” I take her by the arm, pulling her away from the guy. “Come on.”

“What the hell?” the guy says, stepping back as Dee slings her arm over my shoulder. She grins delightedly, her brunette wig stuck to her cheek. I smooth it away with my casted hand and glare at the guy.

“Shoo,” I tell him. “You’re done here.”

“Bitch,” he grumbles before storming off. His beefy stature and heavy footsteps make him look like a Neanderthal. Drunk Dee’s taste in guys could use some work.

I make eye contact with Matt. “Text Mack. We need the car here now.”

“On it.”

“I feel so weird and happy,” Dee muses, closing her eyes. “My tummy feels warm.”

“You’re drunk,” I tell her. “Peach is going to murder me.”

“I only had one drink. And it wasn’t al-co-hol,” she says, punctuating the syllables. “I told him I don’t drink, and he got me a very weird iced tea. It did not taste good, but I didn’t want to be rude, so I drank it quickly to get it over with.”


At this, Matt smacks his free hand over his mouth, trying not to laugh. I kick him in the shin, nearly losing my balance, between my high heels and half of Dee’s weight leaning on me.

“It was a Long Island iced tea,” I tell her. “It has five kinds of liquors in it. Dee, why would you let a random guy buy you a drink?”

“Wait. It had liquor in it?” The smile slides off her face, and she looks at me with glazed-over eyes. “Peach is going to murder you.”

“Yep,” I agree, moving us both toward the exit. Her knees buckle, and she laughs as Matt and I catch her. The quick movement attracts attention, people glancing over their shoulders at the little drunk girl about to make a spectacle.

“Okay,” Matt says under his breath. “Do we need a quick exit or discreet exit? I don’t think we can have both at this point.”

“Quick.”

“All right.” He turns to Dee. “Sorry, little lady.”

With that, he crouches down and scoops her over his shoulder.

“Whoaaaa,” she says, laughing as Matt plows through the crowd. Great. Matt Finch is carrying his alleged girlfriend, who is in disguise and visibly intoxicated. If we get out of here without being noticed or photographed, it’ll be nothing short of a miracle.

“Thank youuuuu, South Carolina, and good night!” Dee exclaims, waving at the people around us. The drunken masses cheer and wave back, and I pray to everything holy that no one has a camera phone on her face.

“Put your head down,” I demand. She complies, giggling into Matt’s back.

“Keep walking,” I tell Matt as soon as we’re outside. A block away from the club’s entrance, Matt sets Dee on the sidewalk. Immediately, she starts dancing to whatever music she’s hearing in her mind. I let her go, spinning with her arms out.