Page 3 of Not a Friend (Crescent Light #1)

Five Years Ago, December

This kind of thing is getting boring, but I have a hard time saying no.

“ S hots! Shots! Shots! Shots!” Gemma chanted, fists pumping in the air.

The waitress shook her head as if debating whether or not to cut us off, but she set the tray of small glasses on the table between us anyway.

Music blared in my ears through the club speakers as rhythmic basslines bumped through the soles of my shoes.

The place was packed to the brim with drunk twenty-somethings dancing in the crowd not ten feet away from where we sat.

Half of them wore typical nightclub attire; the other half wore heinous Christmas sweaters.

“Oh god,” I groaned loudly. Grabbing a vial of the clear liquid, I took a sniff and immediately regretted it. “Why are there so many?” There was only me and Gemma, but the tray held ten tiny glasses of what I now knew was tequila.

“Because,” Gemma replied, eyeing me as she grabbed a lime wedge from the little paper bowl in the middle of the tray, “we’re celebrating.”

“Ten shots is a little more than celebrating. ”

Gemma sighed dramatically. “Fine. If you must know, I do have a hidden agenda. It’s my personal mission to finally get you laid. Tonight. Honestly, Olive, how long has it been?” She loved to point out the painfully long dry spell I was in.

“It hasn’t been that long,” I lied. It’d been over a year, but who’s counting?

She raised her perfectly-plucked eyebrows at me.

“Okay, fine,” I relented. “It’s been a while, but we’re not taking all of these. You’re trying to get me laid, not give me alcohol poisoning.”

We were only on our second round of drinks, but I was already feeling that lovely warmth of being just tipsy enough to have fun but not quite enough to make stupid decisions.

“They aren’t all for you, dummy. But you are going to take at least one.” She handed me a lime wedge, giving me her I Know You Better Than You Know Yourself face.

“What?”

“I’m just trying to help make sure you have fun. You always overthink and clam up before you get the chance to make a move, Oli. You need to loosen up.”

Easy for you to say.

Gemma was accustomed to guys approaching her anytime we went anywhere.

It was an inevitability. Her blonde hair and dimples that could be seen from across the room made them moths to a flame.

I was the friend who—in the eyes of men in their twenties—didn’t hold a candle to their much hotter friend.

The backup friend, in case it didn’t work out with the hotter one. Second string.

It was almost comical how many times men looked through me to get a good view of Gemma. Or better yet, ignored me altogether as if I wasn’t right there . As if they genuinely didn’t register another human standing next to The Hot One.

Gemma was the definition of The Hot One.

I didn’t blame guys for being drawn to her. She possessed a level of charisma and likeability that I could never.

Which meant she was never alone or without a free drink at a bar for more than twenty seconds.

I played my part of “Gemma’s friend” dutifully.

Stepping aside as guys tried their luck with her was one thing.

However, exchanging painfully awkward small talk with their creepy wingman friends was another.

It was the worst part. Especially because it was usually an obvious plan for the wingman to “do his friend a solid” and “distract” me so his buddy could swoop in for the kill.

Gross.

Sure, there had been times when rejection stung a little harder, and my ego took a hit.

Sure, it was embarrassing and dehumanizing at times, but I didn’t pity myself.

Nor did I blame Gemma for it. I mean, how could anyone stand out when they were right next to someone like her ?

Hell, I probably would’ve flirted with her, too, were it not for my unfortunate heterosexuality.

The way I saw it, I was painfully plain in every way.

Especially compared to her. Thick brown waves next to her straight, bleach blonde locks, extra weight around my middle and thighs next to her model’s body, hazel eyes and freckles next to her baby blues and dimples, oversized clothes next to her bodycon dresses.

If I did clam up or overthink any time I talked to men in the wild, it was in part because of my secured position as the backup friend. A response based on past negative experiences .

“Fine, I’ll loosen up.” I eyed the tray between us skeptically. “This is still way too many shots for us to take by ourselves.”

“What if we make some friends and invite them to help out with the extras?” Gemma wiggled her brows at me.

I’d had hookups and boyfriends through the years, but nothing compared to the attention my friends got on the regular. While they were out sowing their wild oats in undergrad, I was more concerned with watching their drinks, saving their seats, and making sure everyone got home safely.

Thanks, anxiety.

Thus began the dry spell Gemma was bound and determined to break by making sure I got a “proper dicking.” Her words, not mine.

Plus, the end of a shitty first semester of grad school at Sumner University was the perfect excuse to go out.

It was the last chance for most students to party before winter break, so everyone was going out in style.

At least, everyone from the ages of twenty-one to thirty in Hartwood, Massachusetts, by the looks of it.

“I don’t see anyone jumping at the opportunity to take drinks from two strangers in a club,” I reasoned. “Sounds like a really great way to get drugged.”

Gemma laughed at a volume that rivaled the music blasting overhead. She propped an elbow on the table, pointing at me. “You forgot one thing, my dear Olive.” Her grin spread wider, white teeth bright against her deep red lipstick. “Boys are stupid.”

She wasn’t wrong there.

With a wink, Gemma sprang into action, throwing herself backward, leaning her barstool back so far she nearly toppled out of it. Reaching a long arm out, she tapped—more like slapped —the shoulder of a cute blond guy standing at the table behind her .

He twisted around quickly, his eyes going wide. Probably confused as to why he was being slapped by a stranger. But his confusion turned to concern when he noticed Gemma’s barstool leaning precariously on two legs.

“Oh, shit.” He sat his beer down on our table and steadied her with a hand at her waist. “Woah—you okay?” he said with a laugh. I saw it in his eyes immediately. The Gemma Effect.

“Yes!” Gemma casually flipped her hair over a shoulder as if she fell into people’s arms on a daily basis. “More than okay, thank you!”

The blond kept his arm around Gemma like he was still afraid she might slip off the barstool. Not at all because he wanted to keep his hands on her for a moment longer.

Gemma continued like a well-rehearsed actor.

“My friend and I ordered too many shots,” she shouted into his ear.

The music transitioned into a zippy electronic beat, somehow even louder than the last one.

“Here”—she leaned forward and grabbed two glasses—“we’ll never drink them all.

Take one with us! Give one to your friend, too!

” She placed one glass into his hand and reached behind his shoulder to give the other to his friend.

His incredibly attractive friend.

His dark, messy hair was a stark contrast against the short, neatly styled hair of the blond. The way he kept his head angled downward, even as he stepped closer to our table, gave an air of cool aloofness that opposed the friendly confidence of his friend.

Both men took the shot glasses with zero reservation. I rolled my eyes with a silent laugh. Seeing the Gemma Effect in action never ceased to amaze me. All she had to do was flash a bright smile and start chatting, and she could make people do just about anything .

I watched the dark-haired guy as he shuffled around to stand between his friend and me. He eyed the shot glass silently before bringing it up to his nose. Then, he sniffed, ticked his eyebrows together, and promptly placed it back on the table, sliding it a few inches away with a finger.

“What are they?” the blond asked Gemma, leaning in close to hear the answer.

The music cut out for a beat drop just as she yelled back, “Tequila!”

The one with dark hair shook his head. “Yeah, I think I’ll pass on that,” he murmured, shifting his weight from one foot to the other as the rest of us licked the back of our hands and passed the saltshaker around.

He stuck his hands in his front pockets as we clinked our glasses together over the center of the table.

I threw the shot back, feeling the tart, stinging liquid go down my throat and land hotly in my belly, warming me from the inside out.

The dark-haired one watched with mild disgust, cringing as I put the glass back on the table.

“Not a fan of tequila?” I asked, giggling at his expression.

“I used to like it a lot.” He gave me a sideways glance as if reliving a horrid memory. “It’s the tequila that isn’t a fan of me , I promise you.”

I let out a short burst of laughter that surprised me as it came out. His mouth spread to a tentative, close-mouthed smile.

“Sorry.” I giggled, feeling heat in my cheeks. I couldn’t tell if it was from the alcohol or embarrassment from the snort I’d just let out.

Gemma made quick work of jumping into conversation with the guy she slapped, effortlessly flirting as she ran her long, painted fingernails through her hair. He soaked up her every word.

Fighting the urge to clam up, I gestured to the vacant seat next to me, offering it to the dark-haired guy .

“They’ll be in their own world the rest of the night, won’t they?” he asked, nodding towards Gemma and his friend.

He maneuvered the stool, scooting it closer to me with one hand before settling down. His long legs filled the space between us.

“Oh, most definitely.” I nodded, twisting my body toward him and propping a hand under my chin to truly look at him for the first time.

The first thing I noticed was the sharpness of his jaw. His frame was tall, with that slim musculature swimmers and runners have. His dark brown hair was shorter on the sides but hung lazily on the top as if he made a habit of running his fingers through it a thousand times a day.

“What’s your name?” he asked, his knee bumping into mine under the table.

“Oli. Well, Olive,” I corrected with a wave of my hand, “but Oli is fine, too…”

“Oli,” he repeated as if tasting the name on his tongue. “Nice to meet you. I’m Nate.”