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I hold up my right hand.
“I, Clarke Hamilton, do solemnly swear not to so much as even think about Treyton Tyler tonight,” I promise.
“Now if only you could make yourself believe it.” With that, she grabs her bag and quickly disappears inside the bathroom.
See, that’s the problem with telling your best friend everything, because she knows when you’re lying, even to yourself.
I grab one of the throw pillows and cover my face, muffling my groan of frustration.
Treyton hasn’t texted me today. In fact, I haven’t heard from him since yesterday when he sent me the message saying he needs to see me. And that I know of, he hasn’t stopped by, so who knows. Maybe he’s finally gotten the hint. Which is exactly what I wanted.
So then why do I feel so damn sad?
“Oh my god, I forgot how much I love this fucking place!” Bonnie hollers over the music that’s so loud it’s literally vibrating the floor beneath our feet.
We’re surrounded by people. Hundreds of them in every direction. Bodies pressed together under the flashing lights and pulsing beat.
Sweat beads at my neck and trickles down my bare back. At least I had enough forethought to wear a backless dress, otherwise the material would be sticking to my damp skin.
I’m drunk.
There’s no other way to say it.
Three sheets to the wind. Fucked.
That’s what happens when your best friend drags you from bar to bar, shoving different shots in your face all night.
It’s got to be after midnight, though to be honest, I lost track of time around the third bar we hit up. I think we’re now on number six, though I seem to have lost track of that count as well.
I can’t remember the last time I’ve partied like this. Normally, I’m a glass of wine and a nice dinner kind of girl. I’m pretty sure there’s an unspoken rule about drinking like this once you reach a certain age. Tonight I’m going to pretend that age is thirty since technically I won’t reach that age for a couple more months.
“I gotta go to the bathroom,” I yell, swaying slightly in my heels. “Will you be okay here for a second?”
“You know it.” Bonnie resumes dancing, her hands going up into the air above her.
I hesitate for a moment before turning and clumsily making my way off of the crowded dance floor in search of the restrooms.
I stumble and trip, nearly eating the ground three different times before locating them in the far right corner of the room.
And of course, there’s a line a mile freaking long. Welcome to any club in downtown L.A. on a Saturday night.
I groan, doing my version of a pee dance as I count a whopping fourteen women in front of me, and that doesn’t even count the ones that are inside of the bathroom.
Great.
Pulling my phone out of the wristlet purse dangling around my hand, I have to punch in my passcode to unlock it since the stupid thing can’t make out my face in the dim lighting.
I click on my messages, making sure I haven’t received anything work related from my father. Which really is code for,I’m looking to see if Treyton has texted me but don’t want to admit it.
When I see there’s nothing, I back out and click on my call log. Not because I have any missed calls, but because I want to see how long it’s been since Treyton has called me.
Sigh…
Could I be any more pathetic?
The man treated me like hot garbage that had stunk up his car. Why do I even care?
But he’s spent the last week apologizing and you’ve avoided him like a child.
