Page 43 of Tell Me You Like It

He moves to the passenger-side door and opens it for me. “I said eight.”

“And I said I didn’t want to come.” I slip into the passenger seat. “So I guess neither of us got what we wanted.”

With a low growl, he shoves my car door shut and walksaround to the other side of the car. In the two seconds I’m alone in the car, I close my eyes, and again, take in a deep breath.

Somehow, I can already tell—tonight is going to be a shitshow.

CHAPTER TWENTY

Lux

We drivein silence for about five minutes, before pulling up to a parking lot behind a nondescript building, painted black. Honestly, if the parking lot wasn’t packed full, I’d assume the building was abandoned.

We pull around the end of the lot, where a valet is waiting. Roman cuts the engine then pulls something out of the center console and hands it to me. “You’ll need this.”

I glance down at my own fucking face. It’s the photo from my school ID. But this isn’t a university card. This is a driver’s license with all of my correct information—with one exception. My birthday is the same, but my birth year is three years earlier, making me twenty-one.

I glance up at Roman. “Uh, where’d you get this?”

It looks legit—completely real. It shouldn’t surprise me that Roman would have access to fake IDs, but damn. This is sophisticated.

He shrugs one shoulder, as he opens the driver’s door. “I know people.”

Yeah, wow. Okay. I guess that explains what we’re doing tonight. And, that doesn’t thrill me, because, by nature, I’m a rule follower. Walking into a bar or club with a fake ID makes me twitch. But I’m not even going to lie–after the last couple of days I’ve had, I could use a stiff drink. Or three.

And the idea of being in apublicspace with Roman is pretty appealing. Because, with other people around, shit can’t get too crazy, right? And unlike ExU, he can’t own everyone inside this club. I hope he can’t, anyway.

Roman tosses his keys to the valet and comes around to open my door. His car is really low to the ground, so he offers his hand to help me out. I ignore it, though. I’m sure it doesn’t look very graceful, but I use the open door to haul myself out of the bucket seat.

Roman lets his hand fall with a scowl, but he doesn’t say anything. He leads me up to the plain black building. There’s a bouncer just inside the door, and we hand him our fake IDs. He glances at them, shining a flashlight over mine, then he passes them back and waves us by. “Welcome back, Mr. Rush,” the bouncer says.

Roman doesn’t say anything, but he does take my hand, and guide me through the busy club. It’s dark, and loud techno music vibrates off the walls.

Unconsciously, my fingers tighten around Roman’s large hand. He’s warm, and strong, and gives me an anchor amid the chaos.

Most of the people here are our age, and I wonder if the fake IDs are just a farce. I mean, the club owners have to know that most of their patrons are under twenty-one. But if we can present convincing IDs, then I guess there’s plausible deniability on their part. Either that or they just don’t care. Money is money, right? And what's the likelihoodthey’re going to be raided? The gamble is worth the gain, I guess.

Roman leads me to a table, where his friends are all assembled—Jackson, Lucas, and Christian. Their table is off to the side, a bit, so it’s a little quieter here, thank goodness.

There are also several girls sitting with the guys. Two blonds are draped over Jackson, and both Lucas and Christian, have brunettes perched on their laps. Both are beautiful with long hair, short dresses, and perfectly manicured nails.

I feel a bit underdressed, which pokes a huge, gaping hole in my theory that Southern California is always casual.

When we walk up, Christian holds his hand up in the air. “Yo! Roman, my man. You finally fucking made it.”

One of the other guys, Lucas, reaches over and fist-bumps Roman. Then his icy gaze darts to me, and on instinct, I stiffen as his eyes slide over me critically. I can practicallyfeelhis disapproval, and I can’t help but feel like he’s expressing what everyone else in the group is feeling—they’re just less obvious about it.

“Oh, hey, Lux!” a voice chimes from behind me. I turn to see Wyn teetering up on a pair of high heels, six very full shot glasses in her hands. As she walks, alcohol sloshes over the lip of the tiny glasses.

The second I see her, relief washes over me. At least there’sonefriendly face here. I reach over and grab a couple of the shot glasses from her hands before she ends up spilling them. I set them on the table.

“Phew! Thanks,” she says, setting the rest of them down.

The guy I met at the party yesterday, Nathan, comes up behind her, his hands also laden with shot glasses.

“Hey,” he says, handing me and Roman each a shot. I take it, and he passes the rest around. Roman throws hisback immediately, then takes my hand, and guides me to the booth-side of the table, where there’s space for us both to sit down. It looks like the group may have deliberately left these spots empty for us—just another sign of deference to their campus king, I guess.

I scootch into my spot, trying not to spill my drink, and Roman slides in next to me, cadging me in between him and the wall. He slings his arm around me, tugging me against him, and again I stiffen. This is literally the last place I want to be. This feels like a den of vipers, and I’m smack in the middle of it.

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