Page 69 of Shut Up and Score
Two short, one long—Luke’s signature, that, and he's the only one that really comes by.
I consider ignoring it.
Then it comes again.
“Micah,” he calls through the door, voice muffled but annoyingly chipper. “Open up. I know you’re in there sulking in those sad gray sweatpants like it’s a lifestyle. But we're not doing that tonight.”
I groan and drag myself off the bed, opening the door just enough to scowl at him.
Luke’s already dressed to cause trouble. Black boots, mesh shirt under a leather jacket, eyeliner so sharp it could be a weapon. He looks like sin personified with a student ID.
“Don’t give me that look,” he says, pushing past me, taking up space effortlessly. “I’m not here for emotional processing. I’m here to save your ass from whatever sad playlist you’ve been trauma-looping to all afternoon.”
I shut the door behind him. “I’m not in the mood.”
“I sorta figured when you ignored my text.” He turns, hands on his hips. “Now go put on something slutty and emotionally unavailable. We’re going to Riot.”
“Pass.”
“Not optional.”
“Luke—”
He holds up a finger. “No. I let you spiral this morning for who knows what reason. I let you ghost the team group chat, skip grabbing lunch with me, and not respond to the absolute fire meme I sent. This is an intervention.”
I drop onto the edge of the bed. “You really think club lights and overpriced vodka are going to fix my mental state?”
He smirks. “No. But they’ll make you forget long enough to have fun. Or at least get felt up by a med student with commitment issues. And those guys are good with their hands.” He winks.
I snort, and then I glance at my phone. The message to Golden is still unanswered.
Something in my chest twists.
Luke sees it. His voice softens, not much, but enough. “Come on, Blackman. I’m not saying you have to be okay. Just don’t be alone tonight.”
I hesitate. And then I nod.
Because even if I can’t forget what Colton did today. I can pretend for a little while.
“Give me ten,” I say, standing.
“Make it five,” Luke says, grinning. “Slutty and sad is in this season.”
The second we step inside,the bass hits like a heartbeat—deep, pulsing, alive.
Riot is already packed. Lights strobe across damp skin and cheap glitter. The air smells like sweat, vodka, and various body sprays, all of it together making my nose wrinkle.
Luke leads the way, cutting through the crowd as though he owns the place. He probably does, in a spiritual sense.
I follow, the thrum of the music sinking into my bones, vibrating against everything that hurts.
He drags me straight to the bar and waves two fingers at the bartender. “Two Vodka Revivals. Extra lime. Make ’em aggressive.”
“Is there a non-aggressive version of vodka here?” I mutter.
“Not in this economy,” Luke says, handing me a glass and already swaying to the beat. “Now drink. Look hot. Don’t think.”
I down half of mine in one go.
