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No, I’m totally not dreaming of a certain beach in Mexico.
With a certain someone’s arms wrapped tightly around me.
Damn it.
47
Trevor changes his mind.
“I’m partying with you tonight.”
Elijah blinks. “Uh … what?”
“Invite all the interns. Invite the whole damned office,” I tell him. “I don’t care. My best friend Elijah is turning twenty-one and there’s no way in hell I’m gonna miss the celebrating!”
“My birthday was yesterday. I’m already twenty-one.”
“You know what I mean, punk!” I laugh and slap him on the back, excited. “We’re going to have a blast tonight!”
Elijah looks mildly concerned. “Are you … um … okay?”
I squeeze his shoulders and slap a kiss right on his cheek. “I am so fucking okay.”
Now he looks twice as concerned as before.
But who cares? Maybe being holed up in the apartment has made me crazy. Maybe Salamander’s fur is lodged up my nose and has planted a rebellious streak in me. Maybe I acquired a taste for partying in my sleep last night.
The reason turns out not to matter anymore by the time the sun’s down, the moon’s up, and Elijah and I are set up at a very particular nightclub down the road.
The nightclub where this whole mess began.
I would be lying if I said I wasn’t crazy anxious about being at the scene of the crime all over again. This is, after all, where I first met Ben. And as the interns trickle in slowly, one at a time, my anxiety only gets worse and worse. Never mind what they really feel about the whole scandal; what if Ben himself shows up?
I interpret every shifty glance my way as a question someone won’t dare ask me. Did you seduce Mr. Gage, or did he seduce you? Is he a bottom or a top? Is Mr. Gage as cocky in bed as he is in the office?
But after a couple of drinks, the amount of shits I give reduces to approximately none.
It’s really remarkable, the magic alcohol can do to an uptight, stick-up-his-ass ex-intern like me. Ex-intern. Is that what I am now? Is my employment at Gage Communications officially over?
That last question is what Isaac makes the mistake of asking me after two full glasses of whatever fruity cocktail the bartender keeps serving me. “Well, I consider my career ‘officially fucked’, actually,” I answer lightly. “But thanks for the cement! I mean, centimeter. I mean … senti-sentiment.”
When you’re drunk and you’re not a drinker, the most normal things become royally hilarious.
Like fingers. “Elijah, Elijah, look at my fingers. They are so … freaking … long.” My observation is followed by laughter I can neither control nor stop, and yes, I do realize I’m being loud.
But when you’re drinking, you assume everyone is loud and totally appreciates your obnoxiousness. They like it, even, and all those stares you’re getting are stares of curiosity and delight. They’re definitely not judging me. Or sneering. Or annoyed.
“Trevor, bro … are you alright?” asks Elijah.
“I’m on top of the world!” I cry out, delighted. “I’m free, and I’m drunk, and I’m—”
“Delirious,” Elijah finishes for me. “And I think you need to maybe pull back a bit, yeah?”
“I know what we need.” I grab his hands. “A dance!”
“Uh, that’s a hard nope.”
“Birthday boy dance!” I pull him toward the dance floor. By now, the others in the club have all become very aware of me—or wary, it’s hard to tell as they’re kinda backing away—and then it’s just me and Elijah on the dance floor. It isn’t long before I get my best friend smiling and laughing again, though I see the flicker of concern in his eyes.
Maybe another drink or two will get that concern wiped right out like an eye booger.
I’m not sure how it happens, but suddenly I’m standing on a block of stage intended for a go-go dancer or a DJ or something. My shirt is off and circling over my head like a lasso.
“What the fuck, Trevor??” calls someone—Elijah, or maybe another intern, or maybe even my totally new number one fan whose name I’d like to know.
Provided they exist.
I’ve spent about four days feeling like total slutty scum, right? Don’t I deserve to feel four minutes of glory, like I’m king of the parties and prince of everything that feels good and completely free of consequence? Oh, wait. We’ve been partying for four hours already? It’s been four years of uprightness, studiousness, and perfectionism in high school that’s been my identity, then all of that wash-rinse-repeated for four years in college? My whole life has been one totally controlled act after another, leading up to me fucking it all up anyway?
Who can blame me? This bomb was waiting to go off since I first enrolled in that Honors English class when I was eleven years old. Each “A” I earned was another tick, tick, tick, tick.
