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My phone buzzed with a text.
Whitney: Knock, knock, you sexy bitch! I’d come on in, but I know you’re locked up tighter than Fort Knox now!
Me: On my way!
Laughing, I made my way to the front door to let her in and found her glowing as only she could, in the red version of my dress that was perfect against her auburn curls.
“Damn!” She whistled as she breezed in, smelling like expensive perfume. “You really are a sexy bitch!”
“You, too.”
“I know, but I’m always a sexy bitch. You only let yours out on special occasions.” She spun and took me in. “You looking to impress someone tonight?” Her brows rose with an evil grin. “Is Mr. Hottie Pants gonna be there?”
I choked on a laugh. “What? No. I don’t even know where we’re going.”
“I thought we’d try that new place by the college. The Wicked Apothecary. Their drinks are supposed to be wicked good...” She wiggled her brows at me. “And I heard they have an amazing house band.” Grabbing both my hands in hers, she spun us in a little circle. “We can get sloshed and dance. Maybe flirt with hot college guys. It’ll be so fun!”
I couldn’t help but laugh at her infectious excitement. “Maybe not the college guys part, but everything else I’m in for.”
“Spoilsport.” She hooked her arm through mine, her smile falling a fraction, giving me a once-over. “I love you, you know that, right?”
“I love you, too, Whit.”
“And I always want what’s best for you.”
“I know that. Same for you. Always.”
We shared a moment, then headed for the door and out to her car, where she bumped me with her shoulder before we parted ways to get inside. “But, you know, sometimes what’s best includes flirting with hot college guys.”
We were both belly laughing as we drove away.
The Wicked Apothecary was packed when we arrived. The place was decadently decorated in gothic purples and blacks with ornate gilded mirrors and frames, giving it an otherworldly, sexy feel. The band was playing loud, bass-heavy music, and the dance floor was writhing with a crowd of people.
“Come on.” Whitney was grinning when she grabbed my hand and drew me up to the crowded bar and ordered us two of the house special, Toxic Brew Margaritas.
They were blood orange and served in giant glasses nearly the size of fishbowls with slices of Tajin-dipped pineapple and maraschino cherries.
“Cheers!” Whitney lifted her glass to me. “Here’s to a memorable night.”
“Cheers.”
“So,” she said, “gimme the goods. He moved out?”
“He did. I told you, it was a temporary thing until he got the security set up.”
“So, he’s gone?” Her eyes got wide as she sipped.
“Not gone, gone. Just not in the house. I think he moved out to a place somewhere nearby. He drives by and checks on things, texts once in a while.” I shrugged, hearing how lame that sounded.
“Huh.”
I turned back to her. “What?” It’s not like Whit to be so lost for words.
“Nothing. It’s just weird.”
“What is?”
She half shrugged and drank, letting me know she was thinking devious thoughts.