Page 20 of The Seven Month Itch
I stand and yawn at the rush of jet lag ready to knock me on my ass again. “Yes, dear. Do me a favor, don’t catch a case tonight. I won’t be awake to bail your ass out of jail.” I pat him on the back and walk him to the door.
With Miles out of my hair, I’m free to do what I want: call up room service, stuff my face, shower, and sleep like I’m in a coma.
My kind of night.
Chapter 9
Justice
Will Smith’s “Gettin’ Jiggy Wit It” thunders from loudspeakers. Beams of neon colors dance from wall to wall. Black-light party balloons and streamers hang from the ceiling, above a carpet of confetti on the ground. God bless the person in charge of cleanup.
Emma and I check in and pick up our complimentary fanny packs. Hers gets a one-way ticket to the trash. No surprise there. I secure mine across my oversize T-shirt and take two scrunchies off a table to tie over my curly pigtails.
I’m in ’90s heaven.
“Could you look more childish?” Em scans me from head to my slouch socks.
Cotton pajama shorts hide underneath my shirt. Minus the high-top sneakers, if I weren’t at this party, I’d be ready for bed.
I take a pair of plastic shutter shades off the tray of a server walking by. “Now I look like I’m in middle school again,” I say with a smile. “Let’s go.”
We weave through the horde of singles on our way to the bar. Some wear their ’90s finest, and others look like Victoria’s Secret models in skimpy getups. It’s no surprise Emma opted for door number two, with a red silk nightgown and a robe that touches above her knees.
“We meet again, beautiful.” West grins from behind the bar. He matches me in a pair of blue plastic shutter shades, and he has his biceps on display in a neon-yellow sleeveless tank. His hair has a little gel in it to slick back the sides. Zack Morris in the flesh.
My smile fades when he takes in Emma. She’s red-hot tonight, but his stare is familiar. Is he licking his lips?
She takes a seat. “I see you two met.”
Um,what?Did they…?
“You slept with him?”
Didn’t mean to blurt that out.
If it weren’t for Busta Rhymes blaring in the background, everyone at the bar would know my best friend had sex with the hot bartender on our first night here. I know Emma moves fast, but damn.
West rubs the back of his neck and points to me. “She’s your friend?”
Emma shrugs. “Justice, yes. How do you know her?”
I look between them and laugh. He eyes me like I’m an escapee from a psychiatric institution, but I don’t care. What are the odds? It’s not like West and I are an item. Hell, we never even kissed. He’s just some guy who made me blush.
“Oh, please. Let’s not make this weirder than it needs to be.” I motion to the bar. “Make me something strong and fruity, West?”
He pauses and taps the bar with his knuckles. “Coming right up.”
Emma presses the back of her hand to my forehead and examines my face. “What are you doing?” I swat her away and grab my drink to take a sip. Tequila sunrise. Good choice.
The intro to Montell Jordan’s “This Is How We Do It” activates my running man. I’m itching to get on the dance floor, but my friend insists on staring at me like I have two heads.
“What?”
She shakes her head. “Nothing. Surprised you haven’t flipped out—minus that psycho laugh.” Her eyes turn serious. “Jay, I’m sorry. If I knew you had your eye on West—”
I raise a hand. “Stop. West gave me a little attention last night at the mixer. It was a nice tune-up, but I’m not naïve about what he wants.” A grin tugs the corners of my lips. “Come on. We have a date with the dance floor.”
Eight songs and three drinks later, I’m still at it. Emma tried her best to keep up but eventually threw in the towel. I’m in a circle with three other women who are as tipsy as me. Couldn’t tell you their names if my life depended on it, but there’s a weight off my shoulders tonight.
