by P. Dangelico
As if the funeral for my best friend’s brother wasn’t bad enough, the wake is worse. The ballroom at the Beverly Hills Hotel is packed. Your usual Beverly Hills crowd of well-dressed douchebags. Most of them doctors, like both of Rea’s parents.
His dad’s a heart surgeon and his mom’s a dermatologist. As far as I can tell, both of them are assholes and I’m entitled to say that because I haven’t seen either one shed a single tear over their son. Over the years, I’ve met them a few times. Enough to conclude that they are cold to the bone. Mine are certifiable and Rea’s are barely human. I don’t know who has it worse.
I nurse my soda when I really want to be nursing some good whiskey. It’s been that kind of day.
“How are you holding up?” I hear Brock say to our friend who’s barely hanging on. Brock plants himself beside Rea, watches him drain his third glass of whiskey.
“I could use another drink,” Rea answers, shaking the empty tumbler.
“I know you’re in a shit place right now, but getting drunk is not the answer.”
“Do you ever get tired of being perfect?” Rea says to Brock. I don’t blame him. Mother has high standards, and the rest of us often fall short.
“Good whiskey is always the answer,” I interrupt. Grabbing a chair along the way, I drop it near theirs and straddle it. “As a matter of fact, I’ll join you. Let’s get trashed. I can make a couple of calls and get some Molly.” Damn, I miss Molly. I haven’t touched it since before the night we beat Long Beach––or anything else for that matter. A day like this might warrant invoking a time-out.
Reagan aims a fed-up stare at me. “I’m not helping you off the wagon. If you wanna get wasted, find your own excuse.”
I got about a million of them and not a single one would make me feel better the morning after. It’s then I realize I can’t keep making the same mistakes and getting the same results.
“Dude––” I know he’s hurting. I know he’s hit his breaking point so I joke––like I always do. “You’re a mean drunk.”
“I’m not drunk,” he grunts.
“You’re definitely on your way,” Brock argues.
“I know you’re going to law school next year, but could we shelve the debates for today?” Rea fires back.
Something behind me draws my attention. Turning in my seat, I catch Dora, who’s sitting with her friends at one of the cocktail tables, watching me with an expression I can’t discern.
“Reagan,” Dr. Douchebag Dad pages his son. He’s got a rod shoved so far up his ass his chin never comes down. His dad conducts a brief and disgusted examination of me and Brock. “Care to tear yourself away from your friends for a minute to be with your family. Dean Sullivan would like to have a word with you.”
Reagan’s face gets red. I’ve never seen him look so pissed. “No, I don’t care to,” he snaps.
The entire place goes deadly silent. Heads swivel. All hundred or so people in attendance turn their attention our way. Bailey stands and starts to walk over, and I shake my head at her. This has been a long time coming and I don’t want to see her get caught in the line of fire.
“I’m only going to ask you one more time––come here.” The fucker grits his teeth. “And out of respect for your brother, keep your voice down.”
Rea recoils as if he’s been punched.
“Me? All I’ve ever had was love and respect for him. Can you say the same, Dad?! Do your friends know that you cut him out of your life, out of the family, years ago? That you haven’t seen or talked to him in three years?!”
“Reagan,” Dr. Mom chides. Standing, she advances on him.
“––that you had him arrested for trespassing when he showed up at the house. Do they know that you don’t give a fuck that he’s dead?!”
His mother grabs his arm. “Outside, right now!”
“Why?” Rea shouts, shaking her off. “Am I embarrassing you?”
“Yes,” she grits out.
One big happy family. It makes me think of mine. I haven’t spoken to Brenda since the night of my accident. Shortly after that the bullshit apologist texts and voicemails started. When they got to be too much, I blocked her.
“The junkie son is dead!” Reagan shouts at the top of his lungs. My boy is finally letting it all hang out and it’s about time. Something had to give and it was either this or his mental health.
“Murdered for his sneakers. Sneakers I gave him”––he pounds on his chest––“The ones I insisted he wear because I was worried about his feet. He was stabbed eighteen times for them!”
“Shit,” I murmur. So does Brock.
Across the room, standing with some chick I’m sure he was in the middle of hitting on, Cole catches my eye and gives me a what gives look. I answer with a shake of my head.
He never said a word to us. Which makes me wonder if Bailey knew and kept it from us as well. By the look on her face, dark eyes wide and quickly filling with tears, her slender hands covering her mouth, I would have to guess that she didn’t.
“He won’t be embarrassing you anymore,” Rea continues, backing out of the room slowly. “And the one that’s still alive…” He stops, nostrils flaring, anger dying out. “I never want to see either of you again.”
“Anybody see which direction Rea went?” I ask fifteen minutes later while standing in the hotel parking lot looking for any sign of him.
“I don’t see his Jeep,” Cole remarks. “Was I the only one that didn’t know about the sneakers?”
“Nope.”
“I didn’t.”
“I don’t think anyone did,” the rest of us answer in one way or another.
“His parents are gross,” Zoe mentions. More murmured agreements.
Dora looks up at me, her eyes packed with concern. “We’ll find him,” I reassure her.
Shortly after the scene, everyone started leaving because nothing says the funeral celebration is over like the family in mourning yelling at each other.
“Alice went after him,” Blake announces. “Let’s give them some space.”
Something in her voice grabs my attention. I glance her way in time to see her face go as pale as a sheet and her eyes roll into the back of her head.
“Blake! She’s having a seizure!” Zoe shouts, as Blake’s knees give way and her body folds over.
Luckily, Cole is there in time to save her from hitting the cement sidewalk. Gently cradling her body, he lowers her to the ground and turns her sideway, his hands cupping her head as she convulses. “Somebody check the time,” he barks, and Zoe holds up her phone for him. Peterman’s basic EMT training has come in handy on more than one occasion during the water polo season. Nothing like this, though. Fuck, I’m not a religious man, but I’m thanking God right now.
“It’s okay, princess,” we all listen to him coo. “I got you. You’re gonna be fine.”
Meanwhile, Zoe dials 911 and Brock runs inside to get some help. Some of the remaining assholes in the room have to be doctors. There’s your glass half-full at this shitshow of a funeral.
A douchebag in a five thousand dollar suit casually strolls up like this isn’t an emergency. At the same time a siren tells us the ambulance is quickly approaching.
“Tonic-Clonic,” Cole tells him.
The suit nods, gives Cole the obligatory I’m searching my extensive education for evidence of my usefulness look. Which convinces no one. “Looks like you guys have everything under control. Did you time it?”
“Just past two minutes.”
As soon as the ambulance pulls up, the the crew jumps into action. Everyone steps away, giving the EMTs room to work. Everyone but Cole who refuses to let go of his patient.
The seizure finally breaks and Blake’s body goes limp. They load her onto the gurney, then they load the gurney into the ambulance. Cole jumps in the back of the ambulance with her.
“What are you doing!” Zoe yells at him, totally coming apart. Brock whispers something in her ear and she makes a pained face.
Other than that, she keeps her mouth shut and the ambulance doors close.
“I’m driving her to the hospital,” Brock tells me as he gestures to Zoe who’s wiping away tears. “You got a ride home?”
“I-I’ll drive him,” Dora says in a quiet voice. “Please tell Blake that I’ll come to the hospital as soon I can.”
Brock nods, then grabs a distraught Zoe by the wrist and leads her to the AMG black-on-black Mercedes G Wagon at the far end of the parking lot.
Glancing to my left, I take stock of Dora’s mood. She’s more quiet than usual. “You okay?”
She nods at first. Then shakes her head, her lower lip trembling. “No.”
Chapter Thirteen
Dora
“This club is dope as fuck!”
That’s Zoe screaming at the top of her voice. Not surprised, right? She walks right past the bouncer, a man the size of the Titanic, and blows him a kiss. The rest of us dutifully fall in line behind her.
“Bar––” Blake says, pointing, “that way.” Her legs in the high-heeled Azzedine Alaïa booties look endless, her brown skin rich against the pale beige silk dress she’s wearing. I’ve never been tempted by fashion, but if I looked anything like Blake maybe I would be.
We cut through a well-dressed crowd, one person more beautiful and glamorous than the next. I even spot a few famous faces. And the decor is just as fancy. The booths decorated in jewel-toned velvet, the back of the bar is a mosaic of colored glass, and the ornate chandeliers overhead made of crystal.
“What are you guys drinking?” Zoe shouts over the loud music and even louder chatter.
We’re celebrating Alice’s birthday tonight. It’s been weeks since the funeral and a black cloud has been hanging over all of us. Everyone’s been in a funk, and it was Zoe’s idea to give Alice––who’s been carrying the burden of Reagan’s grief––a breather.
“How are you buying?” Alice shouts over the din. “You’re not twenty-one yet.”
Zoe smirks and waves her black Amex at a very fit and very sexy bartender. “You’re so funny. Not intentionally of course. I’ve had a fake ID since I was sixteen.”
“Isn’t t-that illegal?” I say, seriously worried. Am I abetting a crime? “D-Does that mean I-I’m an accomplice t-to this if you get caught? My father––”
A slim covered hand, fingers stacked with diamond rings, comes at me and covers my mouth. Zoe shakes her head as if I’m beyond help. “What are you drinking, Red? What’s your drug of choice? I’m going to let you speak and it better be the name of your favorite booze.” She peels her hand away.
“Diet Coke, please.”
I get an overly dramatic roll of her eyes. “Why am I not surprised.”
“Cut them some slack tonight, Z,” Blake chides.
“One shot and we dance! But you hookers are having one shot tonight. You too––” she aims at me. God help us, I pray no one heard her. “No excuses! I don’t want to hear about your perfect parents disapproving.”
“Fine,” I mutter. I’ve learned the hard way that she’s unstoppable when she gets that look in her eyes. No amount of arguing will change her mind.
“Four Red-Headed Sluts,” she orders from the bartender with a lot of heavy eyelashes-batting. Then she hands them out and we all raise our glasses. “To Alice. Happy twenty-first birthday and to many more.”
“And to friendship,” Alice adds, a bittersweet smile on her face. There’s a glassy sheen to her dark brown eyes, and in reflex, mine get wet too. Going by Blake and Zoe’s faces, all of us are feeling it.
“To us!”
“I don’t know how I would’ve survived this year without you guys,” Alice continues. “I just want you to know how much I love you all.”
Tears sneak down Zoe’s cheeks while Blake smiles through hers. I tip my head back and let the sweet, spicy liquid run down my throat, then come up sputtering and choking.
“What the heck was that?” I wheeze.
“That, my little virgin, is what I call a good time,” Zoe chirps back.
“K-Keep your voice down!” Like I need her to announce to the world that I’m a twenty-one year old social misfit.
“Oh, pooh. Nobody cares. Let’s dance!”
We make our way to the top floor where the EDM music pumps loudly. The dance floor is packed, bodies smashed up against each other. At the same time, the alcohol has begun working its magic, loosening me up from the inside out.
“Who is that?” I ask Blake.
“The DJ––Marc Schulz,” she informs me. “Calvin Harris is more my jam, but he’s pretty good.”
The crowd seems to think so. They go wild when he comes on. We start dancing and hours pass in minutes. Sweat-soaked, my hair sticks to my face and neck, my new slinky black shirt clings to my boobs, and my jeans feel shrink-wrapped.
And yet I don’t care.
I don’t care if I look chubby standing next to my hyper-gorgeous friends. I don’t care that I’m not the most graceful dancer on the floor. It feels so good to let go, to live in the moment with no other agenda other than to have fun, that I never want to stop.
Dallas was right––it does feel good to be bad. Well, at least my PG rated version of bad. I have no doubt his version is X rated, which naturally has me wondering what that X rated version looks like. Then I want to kick myself for even considering it.
Across the dance floor, I spot Reagan approaching, pushing his way between one sweat-slicked body after another. Walking up behind Alice, he wraps his arms around her waist, and she reaches back and rakes her fingers through his hair. The love is strong between these two. Unfortunately, as happy as I am for my friend, it also serves to remind me of what’s missing in my life.
“I’m taking the birthday girl home, ladies,” Reagan announces. Zoe eyeballs him with open disapproval but keeps her mouth shut for once. “Can you do me a favor and drive Dallas home?”
“He’s here!” flies out of me. The rogue outburst gets Blake and Zoe’s attention, both of whom stop dancing and frown.
Oops. “Did s-somebody s-say something? Hahaha.”
“Nice try,” Blake replies, snickering.
I haven’t seen him much since the funeral. The kiss was ill-advised at best and all the time we were spending together even worse. Feigning sickness, I haven’t even been to the shelter.
“He’s at the bar,” Reagan remarks.
All of us turn to find Dallas leaning against the bar, waiting to be served. His heavy-lidded eyes meet mine and he grins from ear to ear, practically bludgeoning me with his sex appeal. As if I needed more material for my dirty daydreams.
Zoe groans. “Do I have to?”
“I’d appreciate it.”
“That’s asking a lot.”
“I’ll owe you,” Reagan presses, a sly smile growing on his handsome face. It’s nice to see him smile for a change.
“Yes. You will.”
Everyone’s attention returns to Dallas, who’s approaching quickly. The urge to flee kicks me in the pants. After indicating to Blake that I’m heading to the ladies room, I take off across the dance floor, march down a dimly lit hallway, and find it. Inside the bathroom, I pass by the mirror and stop short. The image staring back at me is enough to make anyone stop and stare.
I am one hot mess. My shirt––my black shirt, thank God––may as well be painted on. I keep poking at my pointed nipples and they bounce right back. The black eyeliner Zoe applied a few hours ago is halfway down my face. And my long hair looks like it’s been back combed for an hour. This is going to take some effort to clean up.
While I get busy doing that, the girl standing next to me keeps stealing glances in the mirror while she applies fresh gloss. She’s whippet thin and very pretty, wearing a minidress that looks right off the runway. Enviously, I stare at her long, shapely legs. I’d kill for those legs.
Slamming the applicator back in the tube, her black almond-shaped eyes meet mine in the mirror. “I’d kill for your boobs,” sh
e flatly announces, then proceeds out the door without a backward glance.
The shock takes a minute to wear off. As soon as it does, it morphs into intrigue. Is that what we’re all doing? Going around envying the next person instead of recognizing the best aspects of ourselves? I know I’m guilty of it. I can’t even tally how many times I’ve done it unconsciously. It seems wrong for some reason. And something else to add to the long list of things I need to change.
Dazedly, I walk out into the dark hallway. The only sources of light are a bunch of neon word signs hanging on the walls, each one emitting a different color.
“Are you avoiding me?” a familiar male voice queries. He’s leaning against the wall next to a sign that reads Stay Wild with his arms crossed, the neon glow outlining his profile. Bathed in blue light, most people would look sinister. Not Dallas. It only compliments his perfection. Which seems par for the course.
His gaze slowly slides from my face to my heels, my skin burning from his open and deliberate examination and it has nothing to do with shame. One heavy-lidded look from him and my body lights up like the Vegas strip at night.
“Are you?” he repeats.
Rooted to the floor, I shake my head. People walk between us. Some stumbling drunkenly. A few necks snap to get a second look at him. And yet it doesn’t break the heightened sense of awareness I’m feeling. We may as well be alone.
“Then why does it feel like you are?”
Pushing off the wall, he swaggers over with deliberate slowness. “You weren’t sick, were you…”
I plead the Fifth.
He nods. “It was just a kiss, Dora. We’ve kissed before, in case you’ve forgotten.”
“I haven’t. T-trust me,” I mumble under my breath.
When he reaches me, he plants a hand on the wall next to my head. “Screw it, let’s do it.”
“E-Excuse me?” I say shocked breathless.
“Screw it, let’s do it,” he repeats. Smiling wickedly, he points to the glowing pink word sign a few inches to the right of us.
