Page 8 of Bad Boy Neighbor

Two.

One.

At the bar, I squeeze my way between two gentlemen to order a glass of champagne. Then, it hits me like a ton of bricks—that’s my mother’s drink.

If I want to be wild, I need to think wild.

Tequila, it is.

The bartender is busy, leaning forward while serving each customer. I try to catch his attention, waiting for what feels like forever, only to have him serve me when a group of ladies push me forward.

“Oh my God, I’m so sorry, babe!”

The woman is wearing a sash that says Bride to Be and a crown on her head. It’s quite comical and very cliché. Nicholas would turn his nose up at women who partied singlehood, though God forbid if men didn’t have a bachelor party with strippers to farewell their freedom.

“It’s okay.” I smile, keeping the conversation amicable. “You have to celebrate your final days of freedom, right?”

“Right?” she squeals, embracing me in a huge hug.

There’s something to be said about being embraced by a stranger. It’s awkward, uncomfortable, and you don’t know when it’s too soon to pull away.

“Girls,” she hollers to the group of women behind her. “Meet our new recruit… sorry, what’s your name?”

“Gabriella.”

“Gabriella is partying with us!”

“I don’t think that’s such a good?—”

She pulls me into that awkward embrace again, grabbing a shot from the tray her friend ordered, then passing it to me. “You have to celebrate with me… married life is going to be sooo boring.”

I contemplated asking why she would even consider getting married if she thought it will be boring but decide to leave well enough alone given I’m one to talk. She is drunk, and nothing good can come from the conversation. At least I’m no longer alone, and that, in itself, is rather comforting.

She motions for me to drink, raising my hand toward my mouth until I’m forced to chug the thing down—a Redheaded Slut shot. Instantly, I taste the sweet cranberry followed by something else potent.

Oh dear God, it tastes like hell on fire.

“Yeah, girl, you did it!” She throws her arms around my body, squeezing me tight, barely allowing me to breathe.

Her friend orders another round.

I shake my head, willing to stop, but Tiffany, as her friend calls her, demands we do another round before hitting the dance floor.

Time begins to feel like a blur. The music changes as requested by Tiffany. We dance away to some Mambo, then she begs the DJ to throw in some Beyoncé, and somewhere during Tiffany’s request for Brittany Spears “Toxic,” the room begins to spin, and I can’t control my laughter.

“You okay, Gabbie?”

I hate that nickname, but when drunk on Redheaded Sluts, she can call me a crack whore, and I will oblige.

“Yeah, is it just me, or is the room spinning?”

Tiffany giggles, hiccupping loudly as well. “Me too! So, get this… there’s a guy at the bar, he kinda asked about you.”

I turn to face the bar. A cute guy dressed in chino slacks and a button-up white shirt grins. Definitely handsome, especially when he smiles from a distance.

“Oh, well, I’m kind of taken.”

“Really? Boyfriend?”

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