Page 22 of Because I Liked A Boy
“Ridiculously right,” she fires back, planting her hands on her hips like she’s queen of the world. “Now come on, Belle. Let’s give you back to yourself.”
A Night Out
Ember hums like it always does on a Saturday night—low bass thumping underfoot, citrus and vodka thick in the air, perfume and sweat tangled in the crowd. I’ve been here before with Ruby. Quiet nights. Midweek. We’d sit in the corner booth, sip cocktails, and pretend the rest of Maplewood didn’t exist. I kept my head down, safe in the shadows.
Tonight isn’t that.
Tonight Ruby pushes through the door like she owns the place, heels sharp against the floor, lipstick flashing under neon. Heads turn the second we walk in, and she drinks it in. I keep my chin high, even as heat pricks across my skin. The white dress clings to me like a dare, every step louder than I want it to be.
Ember swallows us whole the second we step inside. Neon coils across the ceiling, shadows spilling in the corners where couples press close. The air hums with perfume, spilled beer, and something sweet burning in shot glasses at the bar. Ruby soaks it in, chin high, like she owns the room. I keep mine steady too, even though every glance feels like a hand dragging heat across my skin.
Dean is behind the bar, sleeves rolled, dark hair tied low at his neck. He spots Ruby instantly, grins like she’s trouble he’s happy to see. “Starting chaos tonight?”
“Always,” Ruby fires back, sliding onto a stool. “Two cocktails. Strong and pretty.”
Dean smirks, moving with easy confidence. He slides her a crimson drink first—sugared rim, twist of orange peel. “Scarlet Sin. Vodka, blood orange, prosecco. Sweet but lethal.”
Ruby cackles, delighted, already sipping.
Then he builds mine with more care. Pale gold, charred lemon slice, smoke curling up like a secret.
“The Golden Hour,” Dean says when he sets it down. “Whiskey, honey, ginger, smoke. Smooth at first, burns slow.”
I hold the glass, watching smoke curl lazy ribbons into the neon light. For a second, I almost look like the girl I used to be—head tipped back, drink in hand, daring the night to test me. Not invisible. Not fragile. Just here.
Ruby wiggles her brows. “That is so you.”
I sip. Fire and silk roll down my throat, warm enough to make my pulse jump. “Not bad.”
Dean’s grin turns smug.
Ruby lifts her glass, eyes flashing. “To new beginnings—and to reminding every bitch in this town who really runs it.”
Our glasses clink. Scarlet Sin sparkles. Golden Hour smolders.
We weave through the crowd and slide into a booth near the back, drinks in hand. Ruby thrives on the attention, hips still swaying like she’s performing.I pretend not to notice the stares, focus on the smoke curling from my drink instead.
Ruby leans back, smirk curling. “See? We haven’t even been here ten minutes and you’re already the centre of gravity.”
I snort softly. “Feels more like target practice.”
“Same thing,” she says, raising her glass again.
“Okay,” she says, pointing her straw at me. “Moment of truth. Scale of one to ten—how powerful do you feel in that dress?”
I glance down at the white fabric hugging every curve, the gold of my drink glowing against it. The old me would’ve said uncomfortable, too much, too loud. But tonight… it’s different. “Seven,” I admit. “Maybe eight.”
Ruby grins. “Wrong. You’re a twelve. Minimum. Look at you, Belle. You look like the kind of girl people regret underestimating.”
Heat creeps into my cheeks, but I don’t look away. “You’re insane.”
“Insanely right,” she counters, toasting me with her glass.
If you’d told me seven months ago I’d be sitting in a booth with Ruby Meadows, trading toasts and secrets like we’ve been doing it forever, I’d have laughed in your face. She was supposed to be temporary. Maplewood was supposed to be temporary. And yet here she is, tugging me back to life piece by piece, refusing to let me disappear.
The music shifts, bass rolling deeper. Bodies press together on the dance floor, all flashing lights and smoke. For a moment, it feels like London again—too loud, too fast—but Ruby’s laugh pulls me back.
“You know what I like best about this?” she says. “It’s not about them. Not Millie, not Hunter, not anyone. Just us. Drinks, dresses, and the fact that you’re finally letting yourself live again.”
