Page 1 of Play Nice

1

We’re coming up on midnight. The room is loud, everyone champagne drunk, ignorant of volume, and, wow, the air in here is intense, all hot breath and designer perfume. Everyone wants to smell good because this is the hour it happens, when it’s determined who goes home alone, and judging by the pungency, a lot of people in here don’t want to end up in an empty bed tonight. They want to attract. They want to be chosen. So they sneak off to the bathroom to fix their hair, stare at their smudged reflections, primp, powder, perfume—spritzing excessively, with reckless abandon. I inhale.

It’s hope, is what it is. It’s sweet but also pretty desperate. Pretty boring.

I turn to the guy next to me. He’s deliberately underdressed in a white T-shirt and jeans. He’s drinking a beer. I thought this party was too chic for beer.

“Where did you get that?” I ask him.

“The bar,” he says in a tone I don’t care for. I stick my tongue out at him, and he cracks a smile.

“Clio Louise Barnes,” I say, holding out a hand.

He stares at my hand for a moment before shaking it. “Ethan.”

“What do you do, Ethan?”

“Really?”

“What?”

“Small talk?”

“We can exchange childhood traumas if you like,” I say, helping myself to a sip of his beer. He allows it to happen, and I decide I’m into him. He reeks of cologne, so I know I can leave with him tonight if I want to.

“We’ve already met. Several times, at brand parties just like this one,” he says. “I was waiting for you to remember.”

I do remember. But the easiest way to tell who a man really is, is to injure his ego and see how he reacts.

“I’m bad with names. And faces,” I say. “And I meet a lot of people. I’m sorry. Please don’t take it personally.”

He rubs his jaw, considering. “You really don’t remember?”

“Do you forgive me?” I give him puppy eyes, bat my lashes.

He sighs, then lifts his chin and points to a thin scar, about three inches long. “Car accident when I was five. Blood everywhere. Mom was driving. She was in a coma for a week.”

“Is she okay?”

“Yeah. She’s got scars, too. But that’s it.”

I sip my champagne. I like it better than the beer. I wish I had simpler tastes, but I don’t. “Lucky to live with scars.”

“Better to live without,” he says. “What about you, Clio Louise Barnes? Childhood trauma?”

I debate making something up, but I’m intoxicated. From the alcohol, yeah, but also from the balmy heat, the formidable amalgam of smells, the city outside alive with that magnificent Saturday night energy. So I tell him something true. “I grew up in a haunted house.”

“Bullshit.”

“Sorry, not haunted. Possessed,” I say, bringing the coupe to my lips and taking a delicate sip, letting the effervescence dance across my tongue. I’ll need a refill soon.

“Possessed by what?”

I shrug. “That’s all I’ve got for you. If you get me another drink, maybe I’ll tell you more.”

“We’ve been down this road before,” he says. “You flirt with me, so I buy you a drink. Then you disappear at midnight like some kind of Lower East Side Cinderella.”

“Oh, was I flirting?” I say with a grin. “My bad.”