Summer Worthington doesn't hate her corporate job, per se. It's her god-awful boss, Mr. Griffin - or, as her roommates like to call him, Mr. Grouchy - who's the problem. He's cruel, cold-hearted, and the most attractive man she's ever seen.
As his p...
Oops! This image does not follow our content guidelines. To continue publishing, please remove it or upload a different image.
"THIS IS WHAT IGET for shoving Mr. Griffin into an Uber," I lament, sidling up to the bar with my best friends. "The universe is punishing me. A pre-pubescent boy with a mullet and a tent in his pants. Oh my God. Surely, I deserve more!"
"Are you sure it was his dick?" Zac raises their voice to compete with the music. "It was probably just the fake ID in his pocket that was prodding your ass."
I pretend to gag but it isn't audible over the loud thump of the bass.
"I'm not sure this has anything to do with the universe. You know you should always look at your dance partner," Lauren teases in my ear. "Rookie mistake."
She's right.
I was so desperate to erase the memory of Max and his hard, sculpted body that I let someone—anyone—grind against me for a solid five minutes before I had the sense to peek over my shoulder. When I saw the sparkle of delight skittering across very boyish features, I bristled. He was young. Too young. Best case scenario, he was probably an undergrad at the local university.
Safe to say, I quickly extricated myself from that situation.
Strobe lights dance over the hordes of partygoers who have crammed into Club 77, looking for an escape from reality, just like I am. The venue is jam-packed tonight—busier than normal—and the smell of cheap cologne, sweat, and the fruity cocktails they've been serving since Happy Hour thickly lace the air. The bodysuit I've poured myself into digs into my shoulders as I hoist myself onto the barstool and cross my denim-clad legs. I send up a silent prayer to whoever might be listening that tonight can still be salvaged. That all hope isn't lost.
"Three wet pussy shots," I hear Zac call out to the bartender, holding up three fingers.
And we're not off to a good start.
I shudder involuntarily—my body's trauma response. I haven't had a wet pussy shot since I was twenty-one, and it's still not been long enough. The last time I consumed (large quantities of) the sickly-sweet concoction, I ended up hunched over the side of the road, vomiting into a stormwater drain for an hour. I have absolutely no desire to get alcohol poisoning again, hence why I usually opt for a gin and tonic. Crisp. Dry. Not too sweet. Safe.
Zac knows this—we've bonded over our mutual hatred of vodka before—but they're too busy playing devil's advocate to care.
The bartender nods, suppressing a smirk, and whips out three small tumblers. I watch as he tips the bottle of vodka upside down, then the rum and peach schnapps. He pours it skilfully over the glasses until it's this cloudy, pink-tinged drink, and my belly roils.
"How old are we, Zac? Seriously? This is embarrassing." I wince. "You better be paying me to drink that shit."
"Well, I'm paying for the drink, so, yeah, I guess I am." They sling an arm around my shoulder, and their deep, infectious laugh washes over me. I press my lips together, tempering a smile. Damn it. They've got me there. "C'mon. It's just one shot, for old times' sake. Don't be such a—"
