The Carrie Diaries (The Carrie Diaries 1)

I try giving her a wide-eyed look, meant to convey the fact that we don’t know this guy and shouldn’t be allowing him to buy us drinks, but she doesn’t get the message. “Vodka,” she says, smiling flirtatiously. “I’m drinking vodka.”

“Excuse me,” The Mouse says to the guy. “Do we know you?”

“Don’t think so,” he says, all charm. He isn’t exactly old—maybe twenty-five or so—but he’s too old for us. And he’s wearing a blue and white striped button-down shirt and a navy blazer with gold buttons. “I’m Jackson,” he says, holding out his hand.

Maggie shakes it. “I’m Maggie. And that’s Carrie. And The Mouse.” She hiccups. “I mean, Roberta.”

“Cheers.” Jackson raises his glass. “Another round for my new friends,” he says to the bartender.

The Mouse and I exchange another look. “Maggie.” I tap her on the shoulder. “We should probably get going.”

“Not until I finish my drink.” She kicks me in the ankle. “Besides, I want to talk to Jackson. So, Jackson,” she says, tilting her head, “what are you doing here?”

“I just moved to Castlebury.” He seems like a fairly reasonable person—reasonable meaning he doesn’t appear to be completely drunk…yet. “I’m a banker,” he adds.

“Oooooh. A banker,” Maggie slurs. “My mother always said I should marry a banker.”

“That so?” Jackson slips his hand behind Maggie’s back to steady her.

“Maggie,” I snap.

“Shhhhh.” She puts her finger to her lips. “I’m having fun. Can’t a person have a little fun around here?”

She stumbles off her barstool. “Bathroom,” she exclaims, and teeters away. After another minute, Jackson excuses himself and also disappears.

“What should we do now?” I ask The Mouse.

“I say we throw her into the back of her car and you drive her home.”

“Good plan.”

But when ten minutes have passed and Maggie still hasn’t returned, we start to panic. We check the bathroom, but Maggie isn’t there. Next to the restroom is a small hallway with a door that leads to the parking lot. We hurry outside.

“Her car’s still here,” I say, relieved. “She can’t have gone far.”

“Maybe she’s passed out in the back.”

Maggie may be sleeping, but her car, however, appears to be engaged in some kind of violent activity. It’s rocking back and forth, and the windows are fogged. “Maggie?” I scream, banging on the back window. “Maggie?”

We try the doors. They’re all locked, except for one.

I yank it open. Maggie is lying on the backseat with Jackson on top of her. “Shit!” he exclaims.

The Mouse sticks her head in. “What are you doing? Get out! Get out of the car.”

Jackson fumbles for the door handle behind his head. He manages to unlock it, and as the door suddenly flies open Jackson falls out onto the pavement.

He is, I note with relief, still basically clothed. And so is Maggie.

The Mouse runs over and gets in his face. “What are you, some kind of pervert?”

“Take it easy,” he says, backing away. “It wasn’t my idea. She was the one who wanted to—”

“I don’t care,” The Mouse roars. She picks up his jacket and throws it at him. “Take your stupid blazer and get out of here before I call the police. And don’t you dare come back!” she adds as Jackson, shielding himself with his coat, skittles away.

“What’s going on?” Maggie asks dreamily.

“Maggie,” I say, patting her face. “Are you okay? Did he—he didn’t—”