Page 82 of The Last Special Thing

“I met your brother out there,” she said.

“Yeah, it’s cool he came.” Evan handed her the bill.

She leaned forward, inhaled through the rolled money, then tipped her head back.

Her eyes bristled with tears as clumps of cocaine burned through her nose. Swallowing, she choked it down the back of her throat.

“Fuck,” she dragged out. It made sense as to why Art worked to smooth out the lines.

After regaining her composure, she asked, “Was that his girlfriend with him?”

As he answered, she took the second line, prepared for the burn this time.

“No, that’s his roommate, Izzie. She tries to hate me.” He chuckled.

“Why?” Amelia asked, salivating at the chance for gossip.

“She has a misguided idea of who I am.” He said with a sniff that inhaled a few more particles from the rim of his nostril. Then he conceded, “I’m also crashing on the couch.”

“I mean, Art’s on an air mattress, not much better.”

Evan’s lips parted in a slight smirk. Art may not have shared that tidbit of information with everyone else.

She quickly returned to the prior conversation. “Do you think she’s attractive?”

If Joe hadn’t claimed her and she was living with both of them, this could cause a brotherly divide.

His eyes met the ceiling in deep contemplation. “Izzie has a myriad of attractive qualities. Her looks are unarguably one of them.” He looked toward Amelia. “I’m going to head out.”

Amelia took no offense as he left. She’d definitely be asking Art if he knew anything about the brothers and Izzie's situation. His aptitude for learning drama matched hers. He would love this.

She scanned the room for him, an eerie quiet expanding as she realized that everyone was gone. All that remained of Art was an empty whiskey glass.

CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

With her Birkin slung over her shoulder, Amelia hurried along the carpeted hallway. A folded bill, shining with a residue of white powder, was shoved in her back pocket. Art wasn’t at the bar. He wasn’t at a table. He wasn’t hanging around with fans.

Dashing towards the door she came in, she passed the bald security guard. With all her body weight, she threw herself against the heavy back door and was blasted by the chill of the night. It would have been sobering had she not inhaled two more lines like Pixie Sticks.

“You look like a slut! Why are your pockets longer than your shorts?” She could hear him before she could see him.

Art towered above a strawberry blonde. The girl’s eyes darted to Logan, then back to Art. The photographer from the show stepped in between Art and the girl.

“Don’t talk to her that way,” the photographer said. She was a tiny thing, but if the tattoos and nose ring conveyed anything, she wasn’t one to put up with shit.

“What the fuck?” Amelia stomped over to Art, intervening before things got worse.

Art turned to her with a wobble, as if just realizing she was there. “Amelia!” A smile broke, wide and unbothered.

“What. The. Fuck,” she repeated.

Confusion crossed his face, and he pointed at the girl. “She looks like a slut. She knows that.”

“Don’t call her that,” Logan said, finding his voice.

Art spun. “Do you like sluts?” There was a challenge in his voice that made Amelia’s skin crawl.

Logan stepped closer to the girl, and her gaze dropped to the ground.