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Reading the room, Paul’s friend pats his shoulder and drags him out of our booth. “Come on, they aren’t worth it. There’s better pussy out here.”
“I’m your first choice and you know it, asshole,” Evie says with a wink.
A bruise is starting to form on Paul’s brow—even in the dim light, it’s hard to miss. I laugh as he passes in front of me, glaring but knowing he’s in for more than he can chew if he tries anything with us.
They’re shuffling away to the dance floor when Gabriella turns her attention back to me. “Now, what was the idiot saying about you having a Midnight Elite invite?”
CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO
Midnight Elite is a club. No, it’stheclub.
I haven’t heard about it yet, but it opened last year and immediately became the place to be for anyone under thirty in the city. All the magazines mentioned it, there were paparazzi at the entrance because celebrities came in all the time. But the club had a strict guest list, and only let in a few people picked out of the crowd amassed in front every night.
The invite on my phone is apparently rarer than Willy Wonka's Golden Ticket.
Of course New Yorkers were fascinated: they love nothing more than a highly exclusive, inaccessible venue.
I google the club, a sneaking suspicion in mind. Bull’s eye. "Midnight Elite was founded by four talented young men: J. Alden, C. Warren, M. Eaton, and R. White, who turned an old, failing bar into a huge success seemingly overnight."
The article I’m reading doesn’t mention the fact that they’re all sons of megazillionaires who were given a stack of money to play with.
That’s the club that started all my problems. The club where Judith was getting high. I should stay the fuck away from it, if only because Jason invited me.
Only a few problems. I’m tipsy, and I like to party. Most of all, I’mreallycurious.
I shoot Jason an answer.Who’s this?
His response is almost immediate. An eye-roll emoji.
My mama told me not to talk to stalkers.
Your mama would approve of me. Promise. Come on. I don’t bite. Much.
My fingers hover over the phone.
Yesterday, I would have thought his reply was just a jest, but after the awkward, strange conversation with Mom, I ask,You know my mom?
Jason takes a few minutes this time.
I know of your mom.
I’m biting my lower lip, wondering what he means.
Come to me and I’ll tell you how.
Dammit. He knows me too well. I hesitate.
I’m with friends. I’m not ditching them.
How many?
Six.
Done. Your invitation will cover all of you.
Something holds me back, still. Maybe the fact that it feels like a trap.
I look around at six expectant faces, staring at me while I was focusing on my phone like an asshole.
