Page 4 of Forty, Flirty & F*cked

The second time – to my former best friend – I was his best man.

Now Instagram's showing me their daughter's college move-in day, and I'm sitting in a Vegas hotel bar at 9 PM on aThursday, wondering when exactly my life became a country song minus the truck.

"Another?" The bartender eyes my empty glass.

I nod, pushing it forward. "Keep them coming until Instagram stops showing me people's life milestones or I forget how to unlock my phone. Whichever comes first."

He snorts, already reaching for the top-shelf bourbon. Smart man. "Rough day?"

"Rough board meeting." I watch him pour, remembering the way my father's jaw tightened when the IPO numbers came in. "Rough... everything."

My phone buzzes. Another notification from the tech conference I'm supposed to be attending. The one where my best friends – and CEOs of their own companies – are probably wondering where I disappeared to after the "networking happy hour" that felt more like a slow death by PowerPoint.

ALEX: Dude where'd you go?

GRAYSON: He's probably hiding from that VC who kept talking about her "revolutionary" blockchain startup

I ignore them both, scrolling back to Amanda's latest post. Her daughter has her smile, but Matt's eyes. The same eyes I used to split black eyes with during backyard football games.

The same eyes that watched me while he said "I love her too, man" fifteen years ago.

The bartender – his name-tag reads "Miguel" – sets down my fresh drink. "You know what they say about social media, right?"

"That it's slowly destroying society's ability to form meaningful connections while simultaneously addicting us to virtual validation from strangers?"

"I was going to say it's where happiness goes to die, but yours works too."

I raise my glass in salute, then nearly drop it as someone crashes into the bar beside me.

"Water," the newcomer gasps. "Please. And maybe some dignity if you've got any behind the bar."

I turn to find a woman clutching the bar like it’s the only thing keeping her upright. Her dark hair's escaping what was probably an elegant updo, and her dress looks like it was attacked by a disco ball. A hint of sweat glistens at her temple, but somehow, instead of looking disheveled, she looks... distracting. Like she just stepped out of some wild, decadent night, smelling like vanilla and sin.

I clear my throat. "Rough night?"

She lets out a sound that's half-laugh, half-groan. "Let's just say my sisters' idea of 'getting back out there' involved tequila shots and a dance floor that I'm pretty sure was actually a portal to hell."

"The Marquee?"

"How did you?—"

"The glitter." I gesture to her dress. "That place sheds sparkles like a unicorn with anxiety issues."

That startles a real laugh out of her, and damn if it isn’t a good one. Throaty. Warm. Like the kind you want to hear against your ear at two in the morning.

"Well, now I know what to put on the Yelp review." She accepts the water Miguel slides over. "Though to be fair, the panic attack probably wasn't the club's fault."

"Probably?"

"Okay, definitely." She takes a long drink, and I can’t help watching the way her lips part around the glass, the way her throat moves as she swallows. "Turns out watching your ex-fiancé's Instagram stories while having an emotional breakdown in a nightclub bathroom isn't the best recovery strategy."

I raise my phone. "Better or worse than stalking your high school sweetheart’s posts about sending her kid to college?"

Her eyebrows shoot up. "Ouch. That's... that's rough."

"Says the woman having a breakdown in a Vegas club."

"Fair point." She shifts on her barstool, finally really looking at me. And it’s a look. Slow, assessing. Something about it feels like fingertips dragging down my chest. "So what’s your story? Besides the high school sweetheart thing."

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