Page 6 of Hot Girl Summer

After another few rounds, we lose ourselves on the dancefloor in an alcohol-fuelled haze to hip hop throwbacks and club classics. Drinks flow freely and the atmosphere sparks with the electricity of a summer storm, and hours pass before anyone notices there is still no sign of Chrissy.

After Ryan calls a search party, we split up. He takes the outside areas, Stefan flees to the roof terrace and April guards the drinks and seats, while I check the bathroom. Princess Plastic is sure to turn up somewhere, but I don’t expect to find her so soon.

On my way to the bathroom, I check my reflection in one of the many mirrored walls and reapply my deep-toned beige lip shade. Behind me, I spot Chrissy and two of her fellow long-limbed mean girls—both of whom I recognise from school—perched on a Chesterfield around a low glass table.

“Ryan’s looking for you,” I say, approaching the table. My voice carries the same level of disdain that I have always been met with by her.

For a moment, Chrissy narrows her eyes, maintaining eye contact but saying nothing as one of her minions leans into her ear and whispers something inaudible. Then she turns her attention back to her friends, laughing at whatever’s being said, and completely disregards me.

I am seething. But logic tells me there’s no point in getting angry, or even trying. It would only entertain somebody like Chrissy, even if I am sure as hell done trying to be nice. Not even nice, civil.

I turn on my heel to leave, counting my breaths to try and slow my racing heart as I make my way upstairs. This is turning into a night I would rather forget, and the only thing that gives me comfort is the drink waiting on the other end of my cash card.

I order two shots of Tuaca and knock one back, savouring the delicious fire in my throat as soon as the bartender sets it down. With cosy seating areas overlooking the downstairs bar, it’s the perfect place to people watch and contemplate my next move after being subjected to Chrissy’s cruel attempt at humiliation. I know that Chrissy heard me loud and clear, and as far as I’m concerned, she’s Ryan’s problem.

I’d spent most of my teenage years being grossly overlooked. My appearance was nothing like the pretty, blonde, willowy creatures the boys pursued—girls like Chrissy. Funny how perceptions change. How the media defines who or what is pretty, attractive, or hot. Body types. Nose shapes. Eyebrows. Preferences have changed so much since I was a girl.

Once the Kardashian hype took over, the attention I gained was astounding, like my thick thighs, Roman nose, and wide hips had suddenly earned me hot girl potential.

After that, my confidence grew rapidly, but I always hated that my boobs stayed so small when everything else expanded. Over the years, men seemed to gravitate towards me, and I didn’t waste any time making up for all that was lost. Still, I’m grateful for the quiet moments here and there.

I smirk at the thought that I’ve probably scared off my quota of men for the evening. I guess I’ll have to buy my own drinks from now on, or so I think.

“Two gin and tonics, please,” a male voice says. “Bombay Sapphire.”

My favourite.

My gaze skims across a lean forearm adorned with dark hair and a fancy-looking watch. Catching the familiar, unique scent of clean woods, I turn towards his irritatingly smug face. My smile wanes.

“No, thanks. I can buy my own drink,” I snarl.

“Consider it a peace offering.”

I turn my eyes back towards the bartender, paper straws, napkins on the bar top, condensation on a glass, anything to avoid that annoying half smile thing he has going on.

After the bartender places the extra drinks in front of us, Mr Fancy Pants taps his card on the machine and hands her a tip.

“How bougie of you,” I mutter, loud enough for him to hear.

I study the drinks in front of me, torn at the defeat of accepting his olive branch. But it doesn’t take long to convince myself that he owes me an apology, and, despite my best efforts, I’m not going to turn down a free drink from this guy. Fuck it, I might even try and squeeze another one out of the prick.

Raising my eyebrows and the cool glass to my lips, I knock back the second shot, then chase it with a long pull of the gin and tonic, when all I really want to do is throw it straight onto his crotch.

“Bougie? Because I tip the bar staff?”

I cock my head to one side. “Some of us don’t have the luxury to throw cash around.”

“That appears to be true,” he says, openly checking me out, “judging by your lack of clothing.”

Is this guy for real? I open my mouth to say something, then close it again. I have absolutely no words for this douchebag.

“Enjoy your drink, Princess.”

When he dares to raise his glass and walk away, I manage to think of one word: asshole.

He has no business being that cocky. My eyes fall to my completely impractical outfit. Okay, it isn’t the most comfortable piece of clothing I own, but it makes me feel confident. That, and the fact that the residents of Brighton are currently experiencing a heatwave. I have every right to wear whatever the heck I want without some man policing my outfit.

Somewhere between my musings, my body sets itself to autopilot and I follow him, clearly determined not to let him have the last word.

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