“You’re beautiful,” I tell Candy.
She giggles. “And you’re drunk.”
That is probably true, but her laugh sounded very drunk too. I think we might both be drunk, and that seems like the greatest thing ever. Every day men are coming in here getting wasted while we work our asses off. Now it’s our turn to get drunk.
I sigh with total relaxation. “I never want this night to end.”
“We should just not end it,” she says seriously.
“God, that’s a good idea.” It’s actually the best idea I’ve ever heard. I never want to leave this couch, never want to stop floating, never want to crash. “Let’s just stay here.”
“It’ll be like a sleepover, except without the sleeping.”
I raise my glass, which is now sadly empty. “And with alcohol.”
She tilts her head. “Did your sleepovers not have alcohol?”
“I never had a sleepover,” I confess. “I also never had friends. Or, you know, a house where they could sleep at.” Not unless I wanted them getting pawed by whatever foster father or brother happened to live there. Which I did not.
“That’s sad,” she says, sounding like she’s about to cry.
Suddenly I feel like I’m about to cry. And then I am crying, tears wet and thick down my cheeks. God. I’m so drunk. “No, really,” I say, sniffling. “What the hell did we just drink?”
She just smiles with her eyes closed, head leaned back on the sofa like she’s sunning on the goddamn beach. “Happiness.”
Silence fills the small lounge for a brief moment before we both bust out laughing. I don’t even know what’s funny, except that it is. The dressing room is quiet and dark. All the girls have packed their shit and left. It must be late. Or early.
I squint toward the doorway as if I’ll somehow be able to see outside that way.
And then I can’t see anything. There’s just a broad chest filling the opening. A chest I did not want to see tonight.
Even if it is a very nice chest. Beautiful, even.
I want to cry again.
“Ivan wants to see you,” he says.
Candy stiffens beside me. We both know he’s talking to her. Ivan is the only person, man or woman, who intimidates her. And I think he might enjoy doing it.
She pouts. “We’re having a sleepover.”
Blue’s lips twitch. “Is that what I should tell him?”
“Of course not. That would only make him jealous.” She stands and crosses toward the door—somehow steady even though I can’t sit upright. Blue steps aside, and she turns back to wink at me. “Don’t wait up.”
My cheeks heat as Blue studies me. Could she have been any more obvious? I don’t want to give him any ideas. Not that I think he’s struggling for them. No, I can feel him thinking, calculating, weighing what I’ve done every time he sees me.
I don’t even see him cross the room. Suddenly he’s standing right in front of me, his eyes narrowed. “Are you drunk?”
“God,” I say. “No.”
I’m not sure why I say that when I must smell like I bathed in whiskey. And he doesn’t exactly believe it. If anything his expression becomes more severe. “Are you high?”
“Nooo,” I say, drawing out the word as if that will convince him. Or at least make him stop looking at me. Because it’s uncomfortable in a twisty, hot, itchy way. “I would never do that.”
“Liar.” His voice is mild, but I know he’s not just talking about right now.
“I don’t owe you anything,” I shout. Then I cringe, like he might slap me. Tears sting my eyes. I need to get control of myself, but whatever was in that bottle and that pill, whatever happiness means, I can’t seem to think straight.