Page 191 of P.S. I'm Still Yours

Sometimes because your ordinary friends start to expect you to pay for everything; other times because your lives, goals, and schedules simply don’t align anymore.

Sooner or later, rich assholes find themselves other rich assholes to talk to.

Hence, convenient friends.

The Richards and my family went to the same country club for years before my dad died. We’d also get invited to the same events, and Brody, Finn, and I were usually the only kids there.

Granted, Finn was two years younger than Brody and me, but I liked Finn better than his older brother.

My mom agreed, calling Brody a delinquent and the embodiment of apathy. Partly because he was always lying and manipulating people, but also because he was the type to “throw his own mother under the bus if it benefited him.”

I haven’t talked to these guys once in the past two years, the last time being when I moved into Hadley’s house and Gray dragged me to a party.

The Richards were there, and we exchanged numbers.

Now, would I consider these people my friends?

Not really, but I sure wouldn’t mind some “convenient friends” right about now.

I want to get fucked-up.

To drink until I don’t remember Hadley’s name, let alone what she looked like kissing someone else.

And Brody might be a liar and a bit of a narcissist, but if there’s one thing the guy is good at…

It’s partying.

“Why don’t we just head back to the rental?” Scar insists when I don’t reply.

I completely ignore him. “Brody said to meet them in the backyard.”

“You sure this is a good idea? Getting fucked-up won’t change anyth—”

“You’re welcome to get an Uber and leave,” I say dryly.

The town is so small I don’t know if they even have Uber here.

“No way in hell,” he protests.

“Then stop bitching.”

Normally, I wouldn’t be this careless.

I’d have Drea send over NDAs directly to Brody before getting anywhere near his house, but the burning sensation in my chest won’t let me be reasonable.

I just want one night where I don’t have to worry about my image or my reputation. I just want to get drunk with a bunch of townies and forget that I lost the only girl worth fighting for.

“How many people are there?” Scar asks as we climb out of the car.

“Just him and a few of his friends.”

Scar cocks an eyebrow. “Who? Do you know them?”

“No.”

His disapproval is made clear by his frown, but he doesn’t voice his concerns, biting his tongue. Blaring music emanates in the distance, and we follow the beat to the backyard.

We’ve just reached the fence when I hear what sounds like muffled voices. I can’t discern the words spoken, but the overall tone paints me a pretty clear picture.

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