Page 27 of Groupthink

I wanted to disagree with him, but I began to suspect that he was trying to flirt with me and I didn’t want to lead him on. Better to end the conversation now; turn to stone before his eyes.

He snapped his gaze to the door and said, “Well well well, we have ourselves a black sheep in the lion’s den.”

I tried to figure out what he was referring to, but then my eyes landed on Effie Sinclair in a sparkling silver dress.

“She’s no sheep. She’s the lion.”

“Hah! You’re funny, Bowtie. I like that.”

“Just Bo.”

“Fair. But I was referring to the sheepbehindthe lion. The one in black cosplaying as her shadow.”

As Effie strode across the patio, all eyes magnetically locked onto her except mine.

I nearly spit out my drink as I recognized the woman in the little black dress behind her as the squirrelly girl from Dr. Silk’s office. The preppy bitch from the parking lot.

The woman that had my pen.

Sam examined my face. “I see you do have a type.”

“She’s not my type,” I said truthfully. “I just recognized her from somewhere.”

“Oh, so an old flame?”

A spark of irritation ignited within me, fueled by the vodka. “Fuck no.”

Sam tossed his head back and laughed, the dark curls on top of his head spilling back like a pom-pom. When he collected himself and leaned forward, his hair fell back over his forehead artistically like a fucking Dior model or something.

Not that I gave a fuck about hair or anything. I was just looking for reasons to get pissed off.

“Well? You gonna go talk to her?” Sam taunted. “Because if you don’t, I will.”

“I have some unfinished business with her. But after I’m done, she’s all yours.”

“Tell me more, Boss. Oh right, it’s not ‘Boss,’it’s justBo.”

“Fuck off.” I flipped him the bird as I left the bar. I could hear him chuckling like the fucking Joker at the back of my head.

I walked right up to Miss-Prim-And-Proper and tapped her on the shoulder.

She whirled around and her eyes widened with recognition, but her pouty little lips said, “Can I help you?”

“Yeah. I want a word.”

Effie Sinclair—a local pseudo-internet-celebrity or something—whipped around with a dazzling smile.

“Not everything’s about you,” I snapped. “I want to talk to her.”

Effie’s smile wilted. She shot the squirrelly woman a look and said, “Sorry, Grace, I didn’t warn you about thedouchebagsthat show up at these parties sometimes.”

The insult rolled off me. If something wasn’t part of my objective, it was irrelevant. But Grace, her name was? She was the sole focus of my mission over the past few days.

Getting my pen from her was all that mattered.

Grace cleared her throat as if she wasn’t used to speaking up for herself. “No, it’s fine, Eff. I know him.”

Effie looked from Grace to me then back, as if trying to somehow make one and one equal four. She rolled her eyes and said, “If you say so.” As she stalked off toward a group of her admirers, she tossed over her shoulder, “She likes whiskey!”

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