Page 55 of This

Still am.

Stuck on the mirror over the sink:

Snake + Angel

After my shower, I notice the heart he drew around it in the steam.

The others left to find while I get ready apologize for him not waking me and say he needs to finish a few things before Liam’s bachelor party.

The last one is on a milk carton in the fridge.

All I’ll be thinking about tonight is you. Expect drunk texts. Lots of them.

He left the pad of sticky notes on the counter with a pen. I write on the top one, leaving it there for him.

I’ll be waiting. Don’t disappoint.

Strip class.

It was a risky choice, but one that pays off.

Keaton glances over as our party bus rolls up to Cherry Pit, her eyes bulging. “Bennie…”

I hold up the container of body glitter I’ve been hiding in my bag all night and brace for the tackle I know is coming.

She lunges, and I fall back on top of the padded seat, taking the full force of blonde curls in my face as she says, “Thank you, thank you, thank you!”

One thing most people don’t know about my best friend is she’s always been in love with strippers. And once we get her near a pole, you can hear Def Leppard’s “Pour Some Sugar on Me” playing in the background. Like, it’s what actually plays while she whips her hair and crawls over a practice stage.

Our instructor, Candy—her real name’s Millicent, but who wants to toss bills at the feet of someone with the same name as their great aunt Millie?—wisely keeps me away from the pole after seeing me trip on my way in. I am a natural for the lap dance though. Another skill to add to the résumé. Small talk, owns a camera, can point to things and shake my ass. And the career counselor worried about me. How do you like me now, Miss Greene?

The room for the class is in the back of the building, so rather than going through the padded double doors on our way in, we veered into a hallway. Not that we could have gone in if we wanted since the sign taped up said they were closed for a private party. One that’s in full swing as we leave. A bass beat pulses through the walls, and employees mill around backstage.

When a side door opens and floods the corridor with music, Keaton latches on to my forearm, bringing me to a stop.

“Oh my God,” she says.

“What?” I wiggle my arm, so her nails stop digging into my skin.

Keaton’s hand falls away as the door slams shut. “What was Dane planning for Liam’s party tonight?”

“Karaoke. Why?”

Before she answers, another girl walks through the same door, and more music pours out. Unless they have a super-rare recording of the Poison song playing, it isnotBret Michaels singing about roses and nights with dawns. The lyrics are off-key and slurred together like the singer’s drunk.

She narrows her eyes, an unimpressed look on her face. “Because I hear that voice every morning in the bathroom.”

The second she says it, I recognize it too. Liam sings in the shower—if you can call it singing—and right now, it is without a doubt him butchering a classic inside.

“Just a little karaoke,” Dane said. “About as exciting as a dance class.”

Poles and all apparently.

I catch the door before it closes again. A chance to crash Liam’s bachelor party,plusstrippers? I can admit, the night I planned pales in comparison to the perfect Keaton bachelorette party we just stumbled upon.

“Well, bride-to-be,” I say to her, “bar-hopping with the girls and an ever-escalating game of Truth or Dare or…” I cock my head toward the club.

She snorts, already on her way past me. “Like you had to ask.”

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