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“A casual thing?” If I don’t guess, we might never get there. Lucy’s all folded over, fiddling with her bracelet, and I hate that my question burst her bubble so easily. How do I build her back up again?
“No.” Darting a look at our nearby colleagues, Lucy leans in and whispers. “It’s a practice run. To teach me how to date, you know? Darius heard me say I need practice and he, um. He offered to help.”
He what?
“Darius Amin offered to fake date you.” My voice is flat. “To help you practice.”
“Um. Yes.”
“TheDarius Amin.”
AKA the guy all the receptionists swoon over. The man with the Hollywood good looks and model-worthy clothes. The manwho makes incredible music and attracts big name stars to our agency. The Grapevine celebrity. That guy?
Sure,I’venever been into him, because I’ve been wrapped up in my crush on Jude. But even I can objectively see: Darius Amin is a catch. And he’s out here fake-dating people? Sneakily offering Lucy practice like it’s no big deal?
Apparently Jude Jenkins is not the only agent of chaos in this company.
And maybe it’s all fun and games to the composer, but the blush scorching my best friend’s cheeks says itmeanssomething to her. She keeps biting her lip against a shy smile. My chest tightens, and god, I can’t handle any more heartbreak tonight. It’s been bad enough already.
So I mean well when I take Lucy’s hand and squeeze her fingers. “You be careful, okay? Don’t… don’t put your heart on the line.”
Her mouth curves down, but Lucy nods and squeezes my fingers back. “I won’t. I’ve got this, Vi, I promise. I know a guy like Darius isn’t really meant for a girl like me.” And that’s not what I meant at all, not the message I wanted to send, but Lucy glances over my shoulder and pastes a brave smile on her face. “He’s coming now. Are you sure you’re okay?”
Hm. Am I okay?
Well, judging by my knee-jerk public rejection of Jude and the way I just accidentally trampled my best friend’s confidence, I’d say I’m a walking disaster. A wobbly, queasy disaster. Maybe I should find a dark corner and stand there alone until I can trust myself not to hurt any more feelings. Maybe I should move to a tropical island and live as a hermit, surviving on crabs and coconuts. Yeah.
“I’m good.” Lucy starts to turn away, but I tug her back gently by the hand. “You look beautiful, Luce. You’re seriously such abombshell, and any guy would be lucky to have you. Have fun tonight, okay?”
“Of course!” She hugs me, but I don’t think my words sink in. Damn it. “You too. Knock Jude Jenkins dead.”
Oof.
I’d rather wrap myself around his big, lean body and hug until he forgives my earlier outburst, but hey. That is less catchy.
Lucy turns and heads toward Darius, the crowd swallowing her whole. Everything in me aches as I watch her go.
Hugging my waist, I peer around the roof, searching for Jude, and failing that… a quiet spot to hide.
Six
Jude
The trick to surviving parties like these is to find a home base. A secret spot with no other people around, preferably dark and quiet, where you can catch your breath and build up the willpower to get back out there again.
Tonight’s home base: a shadowy strip of roof far away from the band and crowds, with a trellis to lean against. The city is lit up down there like a fallen galaxy.
Music and laughter drift over here too, but they’re muted, carried off by a whistling breeze. And it’s colder away from all that body heat, so cold that I shiver beneath my navy shirt. The whiskey I knock back scorches a trail down my throat.
I’d throw myself off this roof before kissing you, Jude Jenkins.
Those words play on a horrible loop in my brain. Round and round, until my gut aches and my temples throb.
Well, no one could accuse Violet Moore of mincing her words. She got her message across, that’s for sure. I tip my glass back again, but it’s empty, damn it, and only a few dregs trickleonto my tongue. Bending down, I place my glass on the floor with a sigh.
There’s not enough whiskey in the world—but that brand of self destruction has never been my style. I prefer to torment the love of my life until she loathes my presence. That’s my vice of choice.
My head is hazy as I straighten up, but not from the drink. I’ve got that dull, gnawing sense of horror—the kind which comes when you can’t quite believe something is real. It’s the same way I felt when I broke my ankle in college one week before our big basketball game; the same numbness that came over me as a ten year old kid hearing our family dog had died.
