Page 6 of Salvatore

“Maybe.” Concern mars Allison’s brow, at least until a blonde female comes up behind her and wraps slender arms around my friend’s waist.

The beautiful woman kisses Al on the cheek, the chaste greeting quickly escalating into soft porn territory when my bestie turns to reciprocate the welcome.

I watch them make out for longer than I should. It’s probably only a few seconds at most, but the envy it creates has been building for a damn long time.

I’d kill for that sort of easy intimacy.

To enjoy someone with familiarity.

“I’ll get us another round,” I announce to myself, not waiting for the PDA enthusiasts to acknowledge me before leaving the dance floor and escaping into the VIP area.

I claim a vacant booth this time, scan the QR code stuck to the table, and order plain vodka, lime, and sodas, and give my aching feet a necessary breather.

While I wait for more alcohol I seriously don’t need, I scroll Instagram, my finger ceasing the incessant swiping as soon as my cousin Camilla’s face enters my feed.

It’s an old photo—one of her and her dad.

They’re close. Shoulder to shoulder. Happy expressions matching.

They look so much alike—the earthy tanned skin, the dark eyes, the thick hair.

A pang squeezes my stomach and I’m unsure if it’s born from sadness, resentment, or guilt. Maybe it’s a mix of all three, with the liquor in my veins only endeavoring to increase the severity.

My uncle went missing months ago, devastating Camilla enough to reach out to me after a long bout of radio silence. I should’ve gone to see her. At least sent a card to offer my condolence. But I closed the door to my family a long time ago and refuse to reopen it again. At least not for this.

“Your order, ma’am.”

I lock my cell and glance up at the woman standing beside my booth holding a tray adorned with a trio of filled martini glasses.

I frown. “Sorry, but those aren’t mine. I’m waiting on three skinny bitches.”

“Yes.” She nods. “The bartender received your order but he was advised to send these French martinis instead.”

Whatever saddened resentment I felt during my Insta scroll evaporates and a long-forgotten tingle takes its place. “He was advised by who?”

The woman’s light blue eyes turn playful. “An admirer. I’ve been instructed to follow you to the dance floor if that’s where you and your friends would prefer to enjoy your drinks.”

I’m tempted to grill her about said admirer. To find out who he is.Wherehe is. Butgirls’ night, girls’ night, girls’ night.Instead, I slide from the booth. “The dance floor would be perfect, thank you.”

I force myself not to search for pin-down guy as I lead the way out of the VIP area, the skin on the back of my nape tingling. Obviously, he has good game, and that’s a dangerous threat to my pristine girl-code status when I’m craving male attention.

I meet up with Allison on the outskirts of the dance floor, her female companion shimmying to the beat beside her.

“Still no Liv?” I yell over the music.

“Nope.” Allison eyes the waitress with curiosity.

“Should I check the restrooms?” I grab two of the martinis and hand them to Al and her friend. “She might have had too much to drink.”

“We did. There’s no sign of her.”

I grab the last martini and mouth a silentthank youto the waitress before she nods and walks away.

“I can’t see her dance partner either,” Allison continues. “My guess is that they’re together somewhere giggling about whatever has had them in hysterics for the last half hour.”

Given how out of character Liv has been tonight, Allison is probably right.

“Thanks for the drink,” her friend announces over the music. “We haven’t formally met yet. I’m Lucia.”

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