Page 74 of Savage Lover

Patricia lends me sandals and little beaded hoop earrings, until suddenly I’ve got an actual outfit.

Then Patricia gets herself ready, which takes a quarter of the time with no less stunning results. She puts on a loose white summery top with shorts that make her legs look about a mile long, and pulls her hair up in her signature high ponytail.

“Okay, damn,” I say. “Why are you so good at making people look hot?”

“I know!” Patricia grins. “I missed my calling as a celebrity stylist.”

We drive Patricia’s car over to Osterman Beach. It only takes a few minutes, since it’s right on the opposite side of Lincoln Park. It’s almost midnight by now, and I’m confused because usually the public beaches are closed by this time. Not to mention the fact that bonfires and alcohol are banned at all times.

“Aren’t we going to get kicked out?” I say to Patricia.

“Nope,” she shakes her head. “Miles Kelly is throwing the party. His dad is the Super of the Parks Department. As long as we don’t murder anybody, we’ll be fine. And even then . . . depends who does the murdering.”

Sure enough, even though the long stretch of cool sand is deserted, nobody stops us walking down to the water. I can see the bonfire already blazing out of its cubby of sand—at first, a distant torch, and then as we draw closer, a beacon that shows the silhouetted figures clustered around.

I look back toward Lincoln Park. From the water, you see three distinct vistas layered on top of each other—the beach, then the leafy green park behind, and beyond that, the jutting fingers of the skyscrapers in the downtown core. It looks odd, like the three different views don’t belong together.

It’s equally strange to see the beach so empty. I can hear the waves crashing gently on the sand. I can see faint stars in the black half-dome of the sky.

It’s difficult to recognize anybody around the fire. Everybody looks orange and glowing, only parts of their faces illuminated. Levi and Sione stand out, because Levi’s blond hair is impossible to miss, and so is Sione’s bulk. I’m guessing the figure next to them is that idiot Pauly. When I spot Ali Brown, I wave to her.

She ambles over to Patricia and me.

“Drink?” she says, offering us each a Heineken.

“Thanks,” Patricia says, popping the caps off with her keys.

“You look different,” Ali says, gazing at me with her dreamy eyes.

“Oh, thanks,” I say. “Patricia dressed me up . . .”

“No, not the clothes,” Ali says. “It’s your face. You look excited.”

I had just been scanning the rest of the partygoers, searching for Nero. I blush, embarrassed that I was being that obvious.

I don’t see him anywhere. Though I do see that Russian guy that Bella was dating—Grisha Lukin. He’s crouched down on the sand, playing some dice game with a couple other guys. It might be a drinking game, or else he’s taking shots to cheer himself up when he loses.

“Nobody’s Love” is playing on a Bluetooth speaker. People are sitting on sand-dusted logs, others on spread-out Mexican-style blankets. A couple of girls dance in a mellow sort of way, just swaying to the music.

The vibe is peaceful. Maybe because Nero isn’t here, nor Bella either. Only Beatrice, who seems a lot less aggressive, stripped of the rest of her squad. She actually sends a little wave in Patricia’s and my direction.

One of the girls brought a pack of marshmallows. Beatrice tries to roast one in the bonfire, but the flames are too high, and it instantly incinerates. She shrieks and swings the stick out of the flames, flinging the charred gooey mess in the direction of Levi and Sione. It barely misses Levi’s shoe, landing in the sand right next to his foot.

“Watch it,” he growls at Beatrice. “Or I’ll throw you in the fuckin’ lake.”

“Sorry,” she cringes.

Levi looks like he’s in a sour mood. I don’t know about what. He’s sprawled out on a blanket, not talking, just glowering at everybody else. Sione tries to make some comment to him, and Levi doesn’t even bother to reply.

Ali sits down on the lid of a cooler. She has one of those little plastic bottles of bubble solution, and she’s blowing bubbles away from the bonfire, out over the dark, smooth sand.

I sit down next to her.

“Wanna try?” she says. She hands me the bubble wand.

I haven’t used one of these since I was a little kid. It’s harder than I expect to create a steady stream of perfect bubbles like Ali is making.

“You’re blowing too hard,” she laughs. “Look.”

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