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The bartender places two shots in front of us.
I eye the clear liquid warily. “What is it?”
“Tequila.” She lifts her glass. “Bottoms up, bitch.”
I clink mine against hers, then toss the shot back. It burns going down.
Serena signals for another round.
“I’m good,” I say.
“Suit yourself.”
I lean against the bar, letting the alcohol work its way through my system. Maybe this is what I need. A night of drinking and dancing and not thinking about Brandon way-to-handsome Milton.
As if on cue, my phone buzzes in my pocket.
Brandon: How’s girls’ night?
It would be so easy to ignore him, to pretend I didn’t see it.
Naomi: Good. Drunk. Thinking about you.
Oh no. The dots appear, then disappear. Appear again. Is it too late to delete that last part?
Brandon: Oh really? What about me?
This is dangerous territory, the kind that could so easily spiral out of control.
Brandon: Don’t leave me hanging, cupcake.
I want to hear his voice. Want to tell him… what? That I’m scared? That I’m falling for him? That I don’t know how to do this? Any of this?
And the worst part? The absolute worst fucking part?
I don’t want it to stop.
Because as much as it hurts, as much as it terrifies me… I’m alive. I feel something other than dread. Something real and raw.
I like him taking control. Feeding me. Holding me.
And I’m not ready to give that up. Not yet.
Blake’s right. It doesn’t have to be more. I’ll just see where this goes.
Naomi: Your mouth. Your hands. The way you make me feel.
Brandon: Fuck. You can’t say shit like that when I’m not there to do something about it.
Naomi: So come do something about it.
Did I just send that? Sober Naomi would never be so bold, so reckless.
But Drunk Naomi… she’s a different story.
The dots appear again, mocking me with their presence. I’m about to shove my phone back in my pocket to pretend this never happened when his response comes through.
Brandon: Stay where you are.