Total pages in book: 162
Estimated words: 162567 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 813(@200wpm)___ 650(@250wpm)___ 542(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 162567 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 813(@200wpm)___ 650(@250wpm)___ 542(@300wpm)
I’m smushed between Banks and Akara, and I scoop ice from the ice bucket into a baggie. The bottle of champagne catches my eye. But I focus on filling the baggie, then pressing the ice to Banks’ head. A goose egg already forming.
“You wore heels?” Akara says to Frog. “While you were on-duty?”
“You said if I went to a party, I needed to blend in. This is what I wear to parties, Nine.”
“No one’s going to look at your feet, Frog.” He throws up his hands, heated and exasperated, and his eye is already reddened from being punched or elbowed or whatever-the-fuck. Akara keeps checking on me in quick glances, to ensure I’m fine.
He checks on Banks, to ensure he’s fine.
He checks on Frog.
On Luna. On Donnelly.
“Here, Kits. For your eye.” I gather more ice into another little baggie, used I think for trash in the limo. I hand him the ice bag.
He’s distracted on us. “I’m fine.”
“Kits.”
He reluctantly takes the ice, then presses it to his eye and uses the other to glare at his cousin. “No more heels.”
“I seriously think that’s the least of the screw-ups tonight but go on.”
“You’re right. Tovin should’ve never left you. He’s fired.”
Frog eases a little. I already heard that Tovin, the other temp guard, ditched Frog an hour into the party. His friends called him to go hang at a local bar, and he thought that sounded more exciting, I guess. The pay must’ve not been incentive enough.
“You need to take another course in using comms,” Akara says with the shake of his head.
“They’re not easy,” Frog defends. “Like, there has to be a simpler system. Text messaging was invented for a reason.”
“It’s not fast enough.”
“Hello, there’s a thing called emojis.”
Banks laughs.
Akara tries not to smile, and he shakes his head at Banks. Why is my pulse still skidding? Why am I still panicking?
The champagne catches my eye again.
I’ll just drink enough to let tonight go away.
To drift off into the ether.
Maybe it’ll help me sleep. I reach forward and capture the champagne bottle out of the sloshy water. Donnelly and Frog watch me from the other side of the limo.
And I can feel Akara and Banks tense beside me.
“Anyone want champagne?”
Frog shrugs.
“No drinking on-duty,” Akara reminds her.
“I’m almost off-duty. Doesn’t that count?”
“No, and you’re eighteen.”
She groans, “You’re such a dad.”
“I’m not,” he snaps.
“You are,” she snaps back.
Banks is paying more attention to me as I unspool the foil of the champagne neck. I pop the cork, and I press the bottle to my lips.
Gulping and gulping—and then he tears the bottle out of my hands.
“Sulli.”
I wipe my mouth with the back of my hand. “You want some?”
“I want you to stop.” Banks looks pained.
“It’s nothing.” I grab the bottle.
He won’t let go.
We’re in a tug of war. “Banks.”
“Stop.”
“You’re overreacting!” I yell. Why am I yelling?
His eyes redden more. “You don’t need this.”
“I want it. Just like I bet you want a cigarette.”
It’s a low blow. His face twists. “I’ll quit smoking. I’ll quit with you.”
I don’t respond.
I want the champagne tonight.
I need it.
I need it.
“Give it to me,” I say.
Akara cuts in, “Sulli, let go.”
Pain shoots into my chest. Not Kits too. “No—I don’t have a problem. I can prove it.” I tear the bottle out of Banks’ hands. Champagne sloshes on us, but my head spins from all the beer tonight. And I don’t care.
I don’t care.
I want to care even less. So I drink.
And I drink.
I hate myself.
I hate how I empty the contents of the bottle down my throat with total ease. I hate how Akara is staring at me. Like I’m someone he hardly recognizes. Like I’ve morphed into a stranger. Like he wants to shake me and wake me and he can’t see how.
I hate how Banks breathes steady, sharp breaths. Like I’ve staked dagger after dagger into his chest. I hate how he gently pries the empty bottle from my hand and rests a hand on my wet, sticky leg.
How much did I spill?
I hate that I don’t know.
I hate who I am.
I need air.
I need air.
I want out.
Fumbling with buttons, I find the one that opens a portion of the roof. They call my name, but I don’t look or listen. Wobbling, I stand up through the roof—feeling hot, I breathe in the big gusts of air. Night sky and city lights of Philadelphia all around me. We zip fast, and if paparazzi sees me—I don’t care.
I can’t care.
That’s what I wanted right?
Tears squeeze out of my eyes. Drip down my cheeks. The wind takes them, and for a second, I wish the wind would take me.
And then, Akara and Banks are outside. They fit through the sky roof with me. Their arms are around me, and I’m crying on their shoulders. How do I deserve this love tonight? How do I deserve them?