Page 128 of The Comedown

“Happy birthday!” hundreds of people I supposedly know shout in unison.

A socialite I know for a fact gets spray-painted in foundation from head to toe because she’s covered in freckles—trust me, I’ve seen ’em for myself—prances through the quickly parting crowd to plant a kiss on my cheek. The corner of her lips graze the corner of mine, and I have to work to keep from frowning. Instead, I pat her back awkwardly, making sure the move’s exaggerated enough for the cameras flashing around us to catch.

Friends. Friends pat backs.

I never used to think about who I was photographed with or whether or not it’d start rumors about who I’m banging. Shit, most, if not all, of them have been true. But tonight feels different. I feel different, and I don’t want my name sprouting up next to another woman’s anymore.

The next hour is spent shaking hands, slapping backs, and accepting bottle after bottle of the rarest liquor money can buy. I get dozens of cards full of all kinds of things, even drugs. Good drugs, too. Expensive drugs. Drugs the average person would be afraid to take, not knowing exactly what’s in it, but I’d put in my body with zero hesitation. Drugs I have put in my body with zero hesitation. Since I’m not trying to do that tonight, I hand everything off to Slade, letting him put it all in the storage truck we had to rent specifically to store gifts in.

After a while, faces stained by the obvious sheen of desperation start to swim, and I have to toss back a double shot of rum just to navigate through the sea of opportunists. Never catching sight of who I really want to see though, the only person that doesn’t seem to want a goddamn thing from me, I beeline to the bar for another, giving up the charade of smiling through the torture.

Elbows on the bar, I put in my order with the bartender, then start chewing on the side of my thumb, the familiar coppery tang of blood soothing my taste buds like a dose of heroine to my bloodstream. My rotten insides being pulled out by my dirty fucking mouth isn’t exactly the way I thought my birthday would go, but the raw skin fits my mood spot on right now—worn thin and bleeding out with absolutely nobody the wiser.

Something with a sharp, pointed end jabs my back, and through the ceiling-high mirror behind the bottles lining the wall, I spy blonde hair half hidden just below my shoulder. She’s here, and she didn’t bother hiding under a wig.

Forgetting all about my thumb and feeling the first real smile of the night, I say, “Back to finish the job?”

“If I wanted you dead…”

The knife presses further into my skin, causing my eyes to close.

“…I would’ve done it when I had you tied up and at my mercy.”

“Uh-huh.” I was at Collette’s mercy, maybe, but tied up? We both know those handcuffs didn’t hold up the way she hoped they would.

The knife disappears, then that mouth full of straight teeth sinks into my shoulder blade. My cock reacts this time, doubling in size almost instantly, and I drop a hand behind me to find her. I palm the fuck out of her pantyless ass cheek, then bring her in flush against my back, the reminder of how hot this past week and a half’s been fresh on my mind and tongue, and fingers, and cock. Never in my wildest dreams did I imagine Collette would slum it with someone like me, especially me. She’s America’s sweetheart, and I’ve got a box truck half-filled with drugs parked just outside. We shouldn’t work together.

But we do.

I consider lighting the entire truck on fire after this party. Collette’s a better high than anything inside it anyway.

Feeling out the short skirt she’s wearing, I start to slide my fingers down, hoping to sneak underneath, but the moan she unleashes goes straight to my balls, and I end up fisting the material, ready to rip the fucking skirt off her body instead. Swear to fuck, I’m about to come in my pants like a horny virgin right now.

Quickly releasing her bite on me, she says, “Happy birthday, little lamb.”

My eyes open, seeking hers in the mirror, but she’s not looking at me. She’s reading the lines I wrote on the back of my t-shirt. There’s a hole burned in it somewhere back there, too, from when I dropped the joint to choke Slade, but it kinda adds to the doom and gloom vibe.

Out of the thousand thoughts that race out from her head and on to her pretty face, I can’t decipher a single one.

What’s she thinking? Does she understand yet?

“Julian?”

I spin to face her.

No. Don’t get scared now.

I can’t do this any other way. I’m all or nothing, and I’ve been nothing for so. Damn. Long.

“Yeah?” I finally ask when she doesn’t say anything, but no answer comes. Only a smile.

A smile that hooks me all over again. Hooks me, then reels me in just like the first time I saw it.

When I dip to kiss her, she pulls out of reach, glancing around us at the dozens of phones aimed our way.

Goddamn it. Not this again. I thought out of everything, she at least understood I’m done holding back with her and I hope to God everyone in here knows it, sees it, fucking feels it. Her name’s the only one I want mine next to. For-fucking-ever.

“I’ll send ’em packing,” I threaten, not even blinking when I say it. “Every last person here, gone with a single word.” Truthfully, I wish I already had.