The Girl in the Painting

Fuck, I just want to hold her again. Touch her again. Kiss her again. Show her how much I love her.

Because I do. I love Indy.

Indy

“Can we just go?” I ask on a huff, and Lily looks down at me, makeup brush in her hand and glares.

“Just chill out,” she mutters. “And close your eyes. Just a few more finishing touches to your eye makeup and we’ll be all set.”

I groan. “Why did I let you talk me into this?”

“Because you love me, and you know I’m right.”

“Right about what?”

“That you need to get out of this fucking apartment.”

I’m tempted to back out, to tell her I’m not going to this stupid club for Shawn Messi’s big birthday bash, but I know she won’t let me off the hook that easy.

Especially after she showed up to my apartment with a little black dress, stilettos, and enough makeup to fill one of the Kardashians’ glam rooms. All for me.

“There.” She grins at me. “All set, buttercup.”

I look at my reflection in the mirror, taking in the rare occurrence of sparkle and shine and stiletto heels, and I can’t deny my sister worked some magic. Somehow, she turned a disheveled hermit into a girl who looks like she has her shit together.

“You like?”

“Yeah.” Hesitantly, I nod. “You did good, Lil.”

Her responding smile is victorious. “Let’s go have some fun tonight!”

Fun? Fuck. I don’t know about fun.

Tonight, in this sexy dress and far-too-high heels, I will try not to fall on my face.

I will try not to think about Ansel.

I will try not to cry if I do think about Ansel.

I will simply try to make it through.

Before I know it, we’re flashing our IDs to the bouncer manning the entrance at Ultra.

He glances between my photo and my face, and with a curt nod, he unclicks the velvet rope and lets me inside behind my sister.

One foot through the tinted glass doors and my senses are assaulted by pounding music and people. So many people. And they’re dancing and laughing and drinking, and everyone around us looks like they’re having the time of their lives.

Celebrating.

Partying.

Living.

Everyone but me.

I shut my eyes for a brief moment and breathe through the pressure that settles itself on my chest, pushing down on my lungs like a vise.

What am I doing here? I shouldn’t be here.

“Come on!” Lily calls over the music and grabs my hand. “Let’s go get a drink!”

God, I wish I wouldn’t have agreed to this.

I swallow past the building anxiety inside my chest, and we shuffle through the crowd until we reach the bar.

But before we even get a chance to order, Lily gets sidetracked when she spots Shawn Messi near the DJ booth.

“Happy birthday!” she shouts toward him.

“Lily! Get your ass over here!” He yells back, and immediately, her excited gaze darts to mine.

“Go say hi,” I encourage and offer a friendly wave to Shawn. “I’ll stay here and get a drink.”

“Are you sure?”

“Positive,” I say. “Tell him I said happy birthday.”

I don’t have to tell her twice. A minute later, I spot her standing in the DJ booth with Shawn, smiling and laughing and just being my outgoing, extrovert sister that I know and love so much.

One of the bartenders makes eye contact with me, and his eyes offer up his assistance with a little grin. Yes. Alcohol. The club is too loud to shout my order across the bar, so instead, I point toward the bottle of tequila on the back wall and the container of limes near his hip.

He nods his understanding and holds up one finger. “One shot?” he asks, and I shake my head.

I’m not much of a drinker, but fuck, one shot of tequila isn’t going to be enough to quell this earthquake of emotion threatening to shake itself out of my body.

I hold up two fingers, and his lips pop wide with a smile and what I can assume is an amused laugh.

He makes quick work of my order, and before I know it, he’s sliding two shot glasses of tequila, limes, and salt in front of me.

“Trying to catch up?” he asks and I shrug.

I feel like I’ve been playing catch up ever since I met Ansel Bray.

“Something like that.”

The alcohol floods my bloodstream, and the weight of my unease lifts from my chest and my shoulders. And for the first time since I stepped into this club, my knees aren’t shaking and my palms aren’t sweating.

I look toward the DJ booth to find my sister, but she’s not there anymore.

I search the crowd for her, but the damn place is too packed.

Fuck it.

I order another shot of tequila from the friendly bartender, and it goes down even smoother than the first two.

When Camila Cabello’s voice starts to bounce off the walls of the club, I can’t stop myself from sliding into the center of the room and letting the music wash over me.