Page 36 of Hot Girl Summer

“You guys were great,” he says.

Monty takes a step back and casts his gaze over me. “Thanks, man. I only caught the end of your set, but I’m loving your new sound. Who’s this?” Monty asks, his eyes never leaving my face.

“This is my friend, Summer,” Danny says. “She’s a fan.”

Star struck, I greet Monty with a bashful smile, which eases when he offers one of sincerity.

“Good seeing you guys. I’ve got to go, but no doubt I’ll see you at the next family gathering.”

He takes another sip of water, then bounces back onto the stage for the encore.

I turn to face Danny.

“You’re related?”

“Not for long. He’s Belle’s cousin.”

I look at him blankly, as if that name means anything to me.

“My soon-to-be-ex-wife.”

“He doesn’t know you’re not together?”

“We don’t see him very often.”

Danny’s reasons for calling me Summer, and for practically running away before Monty spotted us, is now abundantly clear.

“So what you really meant before was that you didn’t want him to see us together?”

“Sort of. I’m sorry I didn’t say anything.”

I’m not silly. I know how I look. How people judge and perceive me. Heck, I’ve even been guilty of slut-shaming myself in the past, before I realised that I don’t actually give a fuck about other people’s opinions. But it’s made me hard, and I was wrong to think that Danny sees me as anything but Summer, party girl extraordinaire, always up for a laugh and a good time, nothing more, nothing less.

“It’s okay, let’s just go.”

“You don’t want to stay until the end?”

Casting my gaze towards the stage, I linger, captivated once again by Monty’s effortless vocals and boundless energy. I send a quick text to Stefan, then turn to face Danny.

“No, let’s get out of here.”

Chapter Ten

Dannyleaveshisguitarin the car, and I lead the way along a row of Victorian arches which houses a multitude of beachfront cafes, until we approach Barney’s Bistro. Ever popular with tourists and night owls, the late-night eatery has become world famous over the last twenty years or so. It’s cheap and by no means classy, but it’s open for 24 hours, and has an extensive menu for hungry partygoers.

Danny holds the door open, while I peruse the menu displayed on the outside wall.

“Not here,” I say.

“It’s the only place that’s open.”

“No it’s not. Come on.”

He follows me up a set of stairs which leads onto the busy main road, and we cross over to reach the main part of town. We swerve groups of tanked-up twenty-somethings to a back street lined with laid out cardboard and sleeping bags, until we’re the only ones left.

“So, what’s the plan now you’ve had your claim to fame?” I ask.

“What do you mean, exactly?”

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