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“Basically.” I laugh, shading my eyes with one hand as I look at him. “I don’t know if my mom has seen through my excuse or not. But I haven’t been looking at my phone, so—” I shrug.
Brad looks briefly confused. “But how—oh, you’re probably saving all the pictures to post on social media when you get back.” He nods sagely. “One of those girls who doesn’t do candids and selfies. All planned.” From his tone of voice, I can’t tell if he thinks that’s a good thing or not.
“I don’t have social media,” I tell him flatly.
He stares at me for a moment before he realizes I’m not joking. “What? Wait, you’re serious—”
I shrug again. “Not allowed. My parents are super strict. And it just never bothered me that much. You’ve got to pick your battles, right?”
“Um—yeah. That makes sense.” It’s clear that Brad’s three brain cells are all struggling to grasp what I’ve just said, and I sit up a little, taking another drink.He’s not very smart,I think as I watch him out of the corner of my eye.But does he need to be?
I don’t entirely know what I want out of my first time, exactly. I know I want it to be good—as good as it can be. I know I don’t want my partner to know I’m a virgin—I don’t want to make a big deal of it. But other than that—
I almost think I’d prefer someone a little older. Someone closer to thirty, at least—not so close to my own age. If I had to guess, I’d put Brad at twenty-three or so…still the age when I’m pretty sure guys don’t really give a shit about anything beyond their own pleasure. When I go home, the specter of an arranged marriage will still be haunting our house, waiting for someone to give my mother the win she so desperately needs. And when that happens, I doubt there will be very many thrills in my marital sex life.
Those thrills are going to have to happen now, in this place of pure hedonism and vice, if they’re going to happen for me at all. Which means I have to be careful about my choice.
Or I could pick more than one.I bite my lip, considering. There’s merit to that, too. If I fuck Brad tonight, it could be someone else tomorrow. My ‘slut era,’ as Claire so eloquently put it when we talked about this on the flight over.A brief one, for sure, but shouldn’t I take advantage of the little freedom I have?
“How do you know Claire?” Brad’s voice cuts in as he steers the conversation back to what is, apparently, the most comfortable territory for him. “Your parents, or—”
“College. We’re both art history majors. She’s better at note-taking than I am, so…here we are.” I flash him another smile, just as Claire gets up from her lounge chair, unfolding her lanky, slim body and turning to look at me.
“I’m going to go get us shots,” she says with a grin. “We’ll be going out to dinner in a few hours—we should pre-game! And then the club after that.” She glances at Brad. “You’re welcome to come if you want.”
The invitation is given off-handedly, as if Claire couldn’t care less if he comes along or not, which is the absolute truth. She’s just giving me a chance to seal the deal if I want, which I appreciate. At the very least, it’ll give me more time to decide.
“Anyway—” I shrug, laying back down. “We studied together a few times and really hit it off.”Hit it offis an understatement—Claire is the first close friend I’ve ever had. I grew up around the other mafia daughters, but there was always an underlying competition there. As the daughter of one of the more prominent families, there was always the question of whether or not they were just using me to get closer to what my connections could offer them. But for Claire, there’s none of that. Her goal as my friend became to find ways to temporarily break me out of what she called my “claustrophobic life,” and over the past year, she’s accomplished that in a number of ways. “Studying” was always an excuse that got me out of the house. After that, it was just a matter of slipping out of Claire’s house with her undetected by my security, and out to whatever party or concert or event she decided I needed to experience. But this—
Ibiza is something else altogether.
I take the last sip of my pina colada just as Claire sways back up with two shot glasses in her hands. I feel a little fuzzy around the edges already—the most I’ve ever had to drink when I’ve snuck out with Claire back home is a couple of beers, for fear that I’d be hungover the next day and my mother would figure it out.
Claire hands me one of the shots—pointedly, she didn’t bring one for Brad—and tosses hers back as I take a sip of mine. “Do the whole thing at once!” she chides; another one appears out of nowhere that she tosses back just as smoothly as the first, and I try not to make a face as I try to do the same.
It’s lemony and sickly sweet, with a sharp burn at the back of my throat, but somehow I manage not to cough. Claire grins, flinging herself back onto the lounge chair, her gaze somewhere off in the distance, watching the others spread out across the deck of the yacht.
My gaze drifts back over to Brad, now ensconced in conversation with two other guys by the railing, and I wonder if anything will come of it tonight.
I wonder if I want it to.
—
One nap and a luxurious, eucalyptus-scented shower later, I find myself jostling for space on the bathroom counter with Claire as we get ready for dinner. I borrowed more than a few things from her closet for this trip, and I’m so in love with the dress I borrowed for tonight that I want to keep it. It’s a jewel-blue minidress, tight in the front with a loose, draped back, coming just to the tops of my thighs, with delicate silver chain straps at the shoulders. Claire is running a straightener through her sharp bob, the candy-sweet smell of hair gloss filling the humid room. My heart flutters in my chest, every ticking minute bringing me closer to whatever tonight will bring.
I don’t ever want this week to end.
We end up seated outdoors at a tapas-style restaurant, the warm, humid night air wrapping around us as laughter and conversation fills the air. I don’t know most of the people at the table—some of them I saw on the yacht today, and some of them I’ve never seen before in my life—but I don’t care. A model-gorgeous girl across from me with a mane of tightly curled black hair is asking me about my art history degree, and I answer the questions without really thinking.What does it matter if I tell the truth?I think with a sort of giddy glee that almost feels like a high.I’ll never see her again anyway.
I reach for a carafe of sangria, refilling my glass, and hand it to Claire. There’s fruit floating on the top of it, and I catch one of the lemon pieces with my teeth at the rim of my glass, enjoying the sweetness as it bursts over my tongue. I can feel Brad’s eyes on me, his hand grazing along the side of my bare thigh, and he leans over, whispering in my ear.
“Claire said you’re all going out dancing after this. Mind if I come along?”
I turn my head to look at him. He’s close enough to kiss, and I have a wild thought that I could do that right here. Not exactly my first kiss—that was some drunken band member at an underground show in Chicago that Claire took me to—but close enough.
“Do whatever you like,” I tell him flippantly, letting my gaze flick from his ocean-blue eyes down to his mouth and back up again. Playing hard to get is fun, I’m finding, especially with someone so willing to chase. I want to make him work for it a little more, even if I decide to let him catch me in the end.
I have no idea who pays for dinner. A pile of credit cards are thrown into the middle of the table, and I avoid tossing mine into the mix this time—I’ve tried not to use mine too often, in case my mother checks the transactions. Claire grabs my arm as I get up, steering me towards the waiting car.
