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"Thanks."
"And the heels, too. Tall girls are usually afraid of them."
My mouth refuses to form words.
"Bet they give you extra leverage when you're pressed against a wall."
A blush spreads across my cheeks. I open my mouth to speak, but it's still not happening.
Dammit, he's effortless again. And I'm nervous and bumbling again.
This is too much, too fast. I need to collect my thoughts. I take a step backwards. "Excuse me. I changed my mind about that drink."
The bar in the corner is mostly booze in every color. There are mixers. Only one interests me. Grapefruit juice. Truly the most under-appreciated fruit in the world—tart, sweet, and sour all at once. I pour myself a large glass and take a sip. It's not fresh squeezed, but it's not bad.
I want Miles. I'm sure of that.
But there are other feelings stirring in my gut. Something besides desire. Something I might not be able to handle.
By the time I'm done with my juice, the room is packed. People bump into me, nod hellos, introduce themselves in breathy voices meant to imply I'm another girl here to hand out blowjobs to anyone with the ability to play a musical instrument.
I slip out of the room. The backstage area is equally slammed. It's a real party scene—people drinking from red cups, flirting, kissing, sharing stories, and laughing at the top of their lungs. I find the closest door and push through it. Air. I need air. And I need to not be here.
The alley-slash-parking lot is an asphalt wasteland. There are a few loners leaning against the wall smoking cigarettes. I copy their position, breathing deep to suck in as much air as possible. Instead, I get a lungful of smoke.
Forget that. I move to the corner of the parking lot.
A girl in a mini-dress and stilettos waves at me. "We don't bite, hun."
She giggles and motions for me to come closer. I do.
There are half a dozen people milling around a parked car.
One of them, a skinny guy in a suit, is tapping white powder out of a baggie onto the back of his cell phone. He drags a credit card across it and rakes it into straight lines.
They're doing cocaine.
My heart races. I can't be around this. That's how it starts. How it started for Rosie. First, it was her jerk boyfriend dragging her to parties where everyone was desperate to be up or down. Then she was trying drugs—Rosie never was the type to back down from a dare.
Then she was gone.
It happened so fast. Just playing along, being one of the cool girls at the party, and then she's gone. Overdosed. Dead.
The skinny guy leans over, bringing his nose to the back of the phone. And just like in a fucking movie, he snorts the line.
He snorts the other line, sits up, and rubs his nose. Then he's back at it, raking another line and passing it around.
My phone buzzes in my purse. I ignore it. I have to watch these people, to see what they're doing, to see why this had so much power over my sister.
They laugh. They stare at each other with the deepest anticipation, like they can't wait to be in the middle of bliss. Another person snorts. The skinny guy taps out another two lines. Snort.
I can't move. I'm a deer and I'm staring straight into the headlights.
There's a sound behind me. Someone else is out here now. Maybe a smoker desperate for an even stronger high.
"Meg."
It's Miles.
