Smitten

I scoff. “Nobody needs to see me smoldering at a camera in my underwear.” I look at Clive. “Unless, of course, Calvin Klein suddenly comes to their senses and realizes they made their offer to the wrong Goat.” I flash Clive my best male-model smolder. “When CK comes calling, tell them my answer is yes.”

Everyone chuckles. Which, of course, was my desired result. But still, I can’t help feeling a tiny bit salty at the laughter I’ve provoked. It was a funny joke, yes, but not that funny.

“So, are we done?” I ask. “We need to get Daxy to his beautiful wife—and I need a fucking drink.”

“All done for now.”

We say our goodbyes to Clive and make our way through his expansive lobby.

“Oh, I told Kiera we’d swing by to pick her up on our way to Reed’s,” Colin says. “She’s only five minutes out of the way from here.”

“Not a problem,” I say as I push the call button for the elevator. But in truth, Colin’s comment kind of annoys me. Not because picking up his on-again, off-again girlfriend, Kiera, will be an inconvenience. As he rightly said, she’s hardly out of our way. But because . . . frankly, I’m sick of being a third wheel. Sick of going stag to every party. Every school dance when we were teens. Sick of always feeling like the “sidekick” in the movie of our lives, whereas Dax and Colin are so obviously the “leading men.”

I’m not begrudging my two best friends their success with women over the years. And I’m certainly not begrudging Dax his blissful happiness with his wife and young kid these days, or Colin’s ability to get literally any woman he wants, whether it’s Kiera when they’re “on,” or some other hot woman when they’re “off.” Honestly, I’m not wishing Dax and Colin didn’t have everything they do . . . I guess I’m just wishing I had it, too.

The doors to the elevator open, and we step inside.

“You okay?” Dax asks, scrutinizing me.

“I’m great.”

“You look upset.”

I shrug. “Fuck it, shit happens.” It’s what I always say at times like this—when stupid shit gets me down. It’s the catchphrase I coined in middle school that cleverly turned my lifelong nickname—Fish—into an acronym.

“You’re sure?” Dax says. He’s always been able to read me, better than anyone. The same way I’ve always been able to read him.

“I’m just ready to drink.”

The elevator reaches the ground floor, the doors open, and I stride out with my head held high. As I walk, I toss out, “Come on, Goats! It’s time to celebrate. We’re home. We get to hang out with the people we love the most.” I pause, waiting for Colin to catch up to me, and then slide my arm around his broad shoulders. “And, best of all, this hot and smoldering Underwear Model hunk is going to get paid a half-million bucks to become the next Marky Mark!”

Two

Alessandra

Is this real life?

Thanks to my amazing stepsister, Georgina, I’m sitting on a pool ledge in a location I never thought I’d be. At the sprawling, hilltop home of Reed Rivers. A guy well known in the music industry, not to mention to every music student at my school, as “The Man with the Midas Touch.” For the past week or so, Georgina has been having a torrid romance—or is it a passionate fling?—with Reed. Which is why I’m sitting here now in my purple bikini on his pool ledge, like this is a totally normal thing.

I let my gaze drift from the sparkling pool water to the spectacular hilltop view to the small group of glamorous people lounging around the sunny patio. I watch a sophisticated brunette and her strawberry blonde bestie lounging on chaises for a long moment, enamored with how relaxed and comfortable in their own skins they both seem.

From there, I take in Reed’s four closest friends—two couples—as they chat and laugh easily with my stepsister. When I was briefly introduced to all six of these people earlier today, I somehow managed to squeak out the polite hellos required of normal people. In fact, I even managed to answer a few brief questions. But as soon as the group focused on Georgie—as all groups eventually do, given how magnetic and personable she is—I crept over here to this pool ledge to sit by myself and people-watch.

I’m almost positive the sophisticated brunette over there on that lounger is the wife of Dax Morgan, the lead singer of 22 Goats. She was introduced to me as “Violet, Reed’s little sister,” however. With no last name provided and no mention of Dax Morgan. So I’m not positive she’s the same Violet who inspired 22 Goats’ iconic The Violet Album. And, unfortunately, I left my phone in the guest room upstairs, so I can’t google to find out. If my hunch is right, though, and she is the wife of Dax Morgan, then I can’t help thinking Dax might show up to this pre-party at some point. And, if he does, that he might come with his two bandmates—Colin Beretta and Matthew Fishberger. Which would then mean I could very well be sitting here, out of nowhere, breathing the same air as all three members of my favorite band! I clutch my stomach at the thought. Crap. The very notion makes me want to puke into the sparkling pool.