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The sisters look at each other and roll their eyes. “Abbay, do you never get out? Doesn’t everyone in America party and take drugs? These are ecstasy.”
Yeah, pretty sure I don’t want any of that.
Vivianne pulls a water bottle out of her purse, and she and her sister each down a pill.
“Here,” she says, raising her palm to my face like I might eat the pill out of her hand.
I back up, bumping into the people behind me. They don’t notice. “No thanks. I don’t want it.”
She shrugs, pops it into her mouth, and chugs some more water.
Vivianne shrieks with laughter and claps her sister on the back. “Crazy,” she yells. “My sister is crazy.” She grabs her hand and leads her back to the dance floor.
“Ibiza is a wild place. It’s always smart to be careful,” a male voice says close to my ear.
Very close to my ear.
I whip around to see a guy about my height, with glasses, wearing a faded concert T-shirt and low-slung jeans held up by a wide belt.
I don’t expect anyone to chat me up, especially in a place full of women who look like supermodels.
But I could hang. This guy’s the only male who’s spoken to me this entire trip, aside from waiters and shopkeepers.
“Oh, you know,” I say breezily, like I am offered ecstasy all the time, “I’m just not in the mood.”
His eyebrows rise like he can see right through my crap. “Good thinking. Can I get you a beer?” He waves at the bartender, who pretty much comes running.
“Yeah, sure,” I say, watching them fist bump.
“So, where are you from?” he asks.
Holy crap. Am I actually meeting someone on vacation?
I watch the bartender open my beer bottle and don’t take my eyes off it until it’s in my hand. Another thing the guidebooks say. It’s ice cold and feels so good going down. “Miami. You?” I ask, looking around the club like I’m all cool and stuff.
“Chicago. But I’m on tour this summer.”
I spot the sisters on the edge of the dance floor chatting with some guys. I wave casually. They don’t see me.
“On tour?” I ask, trying to sound bored.
He smiles at me. He seems pretty normal. “I’m a DJ and am doing a tour this summer.” He points to a stand above the dance floor holding a bunch of speakers and other equipment.
“Who’s playing the music right now?” I ask, wondering if he’s bullshitting me.
I wouldn’t be surprised.
He raises a finger and taps his temple. Yeah, I know I’m not a dumbshit, dude.
“It’s a tape right now. But I gotta get back up there. Want to see it?”
I look back at the platform and it’s wide open—no doors or glass or anything. Looks safe enough.
How many times in my life will I be invited to hang with a DJ in a popular Ibiza nightclub?
“Yeah. Okay,” I say.
I look around for the French sisters who, for some reason, I feel responsible for. That’s me. Always the responsible one. But if they’re going to get wasted or whatever on ecstasy, someone has to keep an eye out for them.
