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He doesn’t respond.
“For someone who’s accomplished as much as you have,” I say, “you are staggeringly immature.”
He doesn’t rise to the bait.
“I never thought you’d remind me so much of my ex,” I mutter.
That gets his attention. His eyes whip to mine and he growls, “Please never compare me to that piece of shit again.”
“Then maybe stop acting like him,” I hiss back.
“We. Don’t. Have. Time.”
“Fine!” I shout, throwing up my hands. “I don’t care. You know why? Because I could be wearing granny panties up to my tits and I’d still be more of a good time than you are.”
A strangled sound breaks over Nick’s furious response. It takes me a moment but then I realize that it’s Horus. The driver had tried to smother a laugh, and from the redness of his neck he’s still fighting it. Nick glowers at him in the rear-view mirror but the interruption has defused the situation enough for us to return to stony silence.
Why is Nick acting so badly? I’m mad, but mostly I’m hurt and disappointed. I suppose one nice evening can’t erase decades of his own programming. When things go well, Nick can be a charming, sexy guy, but one hiccup and look out. Well if that’s the way it’s going to be then forget him. I’ve had enough of immature men for one lifetime.
The one single positive thing about my slight fall for Nick (and all attraction is seriously hanging by a thread right now) is that I’ve pretty quickly moved on from Brent, the guy I thought I was going to spend the rest of my life with. Now that I’m out of the cloud of wedding plans and stable commitment, I’ve come to realize just how wrong he was for me. And with Mickey in my corner, my constant cheerleader, I can see how toxic of a friend Cheryl truly was. In fact, after I’d come home from our wonderful date on Friday, I’d finally blocked and deleted both of them on Instagram.
Of course just because Brent is definitely not for me, doesn’t mean that Nick definitely is. As distasteful as it might be, I just might need to start going back to the clubs with Mickey once I’m finished in Europe. Actually, no. Better yet maybe I’ll find a sexy Parisian with a smooth French accent to bring along to Kara’s concerts.
I glower at Nick out of the corner of my eyes. I can’t wait to see his face when he finds out that I’m not just going to take his shitty attitude and come crawling back for more.
We arrive at the airfield, a private strip catering to the rich and fabulous. After presenting our IDs to a gate guard, the SUV is allowed to drive right onto the tarmac and to an enormous plane idling on a runway.
“Holy shit,” I say, forgetting my irritation for a moment. “That’s not it, is it?”
The plane is not the sleek and stylish private jet that I’d expected. No, this sucker is the size of a jumbo passenger plane. I’m incredibly confused.
“If that’s what I think it is,” Nick mumbles, “this day is about to get a hell of a lot worse.”
This doesn’t do anything to satiate my curiosity but I’m not desperate enough to ask for more details. All I can do is jump out onto the tarmac, grab my carry-on, and steel myself. It’s not easy. Dorky clothes, a grumpy partner, and god knows what at the top of those roll-away stairs? My internal optimist has fled the coop; this is about to be bad.
Still, I lift my chin and lead the way, Nick trailing sullenly behind me. Before I even reach the stairs I can hear the sound of Kara Kon’s music being blasted from inside the plane, along with the smell of about thirty different colognes that combine to form a scent cyclone of Biblical proportions.
The noise and smells only get stronger as I force my feet onward. Walking through the door, I realize what Nick had probably suspected in the car: this is a party jet.
The seats of the 747 have all been ripped out, leaving behind a wide tube with blacked-out windows and lit by strips of multicolor flashing neon lights. There are about two hundred people already here, all of them young, hip, and well-dressed, and all already drinking like it’s the end of the world. Red and green lasers streak through the air, cutting through the clouds of vape smoke that have gathered above us so thickly it looks like the plane has its own weather system.
I stop in my tracks, mouth open, eyes wide.
“We’ve officially stumbled through the looking glass,” Nick says beside me. He sounds resigned to his fate.
“And it’s adapt or die,” I say firmly.
“I’m not sure the book was that grim.”
I’m about to quip back, tell him then maybe this situation isn’t so bad either. But memories of our drive out here can’t be erased that easily. I shut my mouth firmly.
“Look—” Nick starts.
What is probably going to be another annoyed comment doesn’t get the chance to infuriate me. Dalton pops out from the mass of partiers. I briefly catch a look of irritation on his face before it changes into a polite smile at the sight of us.
“Mr. Madison, Ms. Davis,” he says, shaking both our hands. He’s dressed sharply in a pinstripe blue suit over a black t-shirt and wearing a gold chain around his neck. His dreads are piled neatly on the back of his head. “Welcome to the funhouse.”
“Is that what you call this?” Nick asks.
