Page 23 of So Thirsty

“It’s Ilie,” she says. “The guy from last night.”

“What guy?”

“The guy I met at the bar,” she says. “He has a house on the lake. He’s staying there with some friends. He gave me his number and told me to call him if we were looking for a good time. So I called him.”

If my face weren’t frozen, I’d be giving her a death glare.

“We’ll hang out,” she says. “Meet some new people. It’ll be fun!”

“The thing is, I know you’re familiar with the concept of stranger danger, but until we’re tied up in this guy’s murder lair, you’re not going to believe it’s a real thing.”

“Well, if that happens, you can tell me I told you so,” she says. “Your favorite.”

“Naomi. I’m not getting in a car with someone I don’t know. That you don’t know.”

“I do know him. I know his type. He’s a rich European. Old-world old money. We’re gonna go over there and drink top-shelf liquor and do the best fucking drugs and stay up and talk and—I don’t know—get naked.”

“What?” I shout, so loudly, the wind withers.

This argument is happening too late. The driver slams on the brakes right in front of us, and the passenger-side door opens.

“Good evening, my loves,” says the impossibly handsome stranger apparently named Ilie. He has a strong accent I can’t quite place. Russian? “Come, come. Let me take you to the party.”

Naomi turns to face me. She puts her hands firmly on my shoulders, looks me in the eye, and says, “You have to live your life, Sloane. You have to live.”

Then she lets me go. She turns back around and climbs into the car.

Snow starts to fall, flakes as thick and wide as doilies. I forgot to check the weather forecast.

Naomi beckons me from the passenger seat. She lifts up a lollipop, waves it around. She singsongs, “I have candy.”

“That’s not funny,” I mutter, staring down at the ground, which is powdered with snow. It’s sticking.

“Sloane,” Naomi says. Something about her tone snaps my head up. She’s pleading with me.

“Come, love,” Ilie says, grinning. “I don’t bite.”

This isn’t my decision. It’s Naomi’s, and she’s already made it, so I get into the car. Because I won’t let her go alone. I can’t.

She’s all I have.

9

T he Batmobile is a two-seater, so I end up sitting on Naomi’s lap. She giggles at Ilie as I reach back, searching in vain for a seat belt.

“Don’t worry. I am safe driver,” Ilie says in his thick accent. He’s speeding, sliding all over the snow-slick road. “Very safe.”

“Yeah, I can tell,” I say. This car probably cost more than my house, but does it have airbags?

“Sloane, yes? It is very nice to meet you. I tell Naomi, I am very glad she is calling. My name is Ilie,” he says. He lets go of the wheel to shake my hand. I give it a quick squeeze, but instead of taking the wheel again, he gets out a pack of cigarettes, puts one between his lips, and lights it.

“I don’t usually smoke in car, but,” he says, shrugging as he finally takes the wheel again, “it is special occasion, yes?”

“It’s Sloane’s birthday,” Naomi says.

“Tomorrow,” I say.

“Happy, happy birthday,” Ilie says. “You must make wish. It will come true.”