Page 68 of Gilded Fake

“Just as long as she doesn’t have her phone,” he says darkly. “That’s where she does the most damage.”

A minute later, he pulls up at the bubble tea shop.

“I’m not allowed to get drinks here anymore,” I admit.

“You are now,” he says, pulling up to the window. He orders and hands his Black Card through, and they don’t bat an eye. I smile sweetly at the asshole who refused to serve me when he hands our drinks through.

“I thought you were making me choose between the three options,” I say, setting my tea in the cup holder.

“Why choose?” he asks. “We’ll make a quick stop for coffee on the way out of town. And drink carriers.”

After fulfilling the promise, he pulls off the highway onto the dirt road to the quarry a few minutes later.

“Okay, I’ve been silent long enough,” I say. “I have to ask. What the fuck is up with your music?”

“We’re driving on a dirt road,” he points out, gesturing around. “We’re about to stargaze in the bed of my truck. Country music is the obvious soundtrack to the night.”

“Seems a little cliché.”

“A little?” he asks, reaching over to crank the volume. “You’re obviously not listening closely enough.”

We arrive at the quarry, where a couple other vehicles are already parked. At least there’s no party tonight, since it’s well past football season, a moment’s rest between prom and graduation. Everyone is studying for finals or preparing for their first internship, looking forward with anticipation and trepidation, the realization finally sinking in that it’s finally almost over.

We survived it, for better or worse. We’ll all gain our diplomas when we walk across that stage, but we’ve lost so much. Family members passed and friends moved away; some of us lost loves and lovers; survived traumas and trials; fell further than we knew we could. But the finish line is finally there, within reach, at the tips of our fingers. No one wants to risk fucking it up this close to the end.

Colt goes to set up the back of the truck again, then carries me around. “I don’t know how many stars we’ll see tonight,” he says, setting me on the tailgate and nodding to the sky, where the moon glows dully through a thin layer of rapidly moving clouds. “’Fraid it’s more like cloud-gazing.”

“I’m not here for the stars,” I say lightly.

“Is that right?” he asks, cracking a slow, appreciative smile as he looks me over.

“Are you?” I challenge.

He leans in and gives me a slow kiss, the smile still playing on his lips. When he pulls back, he slowly tucks my hair behind my ear. “Butterfly, I’d trade all the stars in the sky for the ones in your eyes when you look at me that way.”

“Does that work on all the girls?”

“I don’t know, does it?” he asks, opening a little cooler and handing me a beer before hopping up beside me. “I’m testing it on you before I take it to my other side chicks.”

I laugh and set the beer aside with the other drinks, holding the Styrofoam cup between my thighs as I stir the long spoon through the hole in the dome-shaped lid of my float.

“It was pretty good,” I admit. “A solid 7.5.”

He laughs and shakes his head, leaning back to work his fingers into the pocket of his jeans. I watch him, my mouth watering like it always does when he brings attention to those narrow hips. I can’t help picturing them without his jeans, the sharp angle of his hipbones, the V of muscle between, the tattoos… His perfect, smooth, pierced cock.

He slips something onto his tongue and takes a swallow of beer before setting it aside and picking up his own float. I think about commenting on the pills, then decide to leave it alone. It was only one, and he was mostly fine after taking at least a half dozen last night.

“A 7.5,” he mutters to himself, shaking his head. “Tough crowd.”

I shrug. “Or maybe you’re just used to girls who don’t make you work for it.”

“Oh, now I have to work for you?”

“Some parts of me.”

I wait for him to crack a joke about already getting my ass without effort, but he just frowns into his float. “Interesting.”

“Is that a dealbreaker?”

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