Page 77 of Spearcrest Queen

“Is she having a stroke?” Solana’s boyfriend says, curling his arm around her waist.

“She just needs some fresh air.” Elle laughs, shaking her head, and grabs my arm. “Come on, I need a smoke anyway.”

The cold air isa harsh if welcome slap to the face, shocking after the heat and movement of the club, the darkness soothing after the assault of flashing lights. Elle pulls out a slim joint from a vintage cigarette case in gold and burgundy leather. She flicks her lighter, the brief flare of orange reflecting in the glossy windows of a black SUV idling by the kerb.

Leaning back against the cool wall, I watch as she takes a long drag, exhaling slowly. The street is alive with people, laughter, shouting, fragments of music spilling from bar doors, and above all, the distant splash and wind of the waterfront.

“Here,” Elle says, holding out the joint between two fingers.

I take it on impulse, bringing it to my lips. I inhale with confidence—and immediately regret it.

Smoke burns my throat; I choke violently, doubling over, coughing so hard my ribs ache. Elle laughs, smacking my back as I wheeze, eyes streaming.

“Oh my god,” she gasps. “Was that your first time? Ew, that’s so tragic. Don’t Europeans smoke like crazy?”

“I’m British,” I croak.

“You’re telling me you never smoked once at your fancy private school?”

“I happened to be a prefect,” I try to say with as much dignity as I can while I’m wiping tears from my eyes. “I’m sure I can figure it out,” I add, but Elle shakes her head, laughing, and plucks the joint from my hand before I can try again.

“Not for you, honey.”

I lean back against the cold stone railing, gulping in fresh air, waiting for my chest to stop burning. My head feels pleasantly light, my skin buzzing with the warmth of alcohol and the afterburn of smoke.

“I feel good,” I tell Elle softly.

“Yeah?”

“Yes.”

Two guys who had been smoking nearby make their way back inside, glancing at us on their way.

Elle nudges me with her hip. “You should bring one of them home. They’ve been checking you out all night.”

I know exactly who she’s talking about. Two of Sol’s boyfriend’s friends, the rich boys with the black cards and expensive watches. One of them has brown skin and gelled curls, the other is fair, both are tall and good-looking enough to be modelling overpriced cologne on some New York billboard.

I shake my head, laughter bubbling up before I can stop it. “I don’t want them.”

Elle lifts an eyebrow. “No?”

The answer is already there, sparkling beneath my skin, effervescent and alive. It’s not a secret, not a burden—it’s a truth that feelssogood to say, finally, out loud.

I tip my head back against the railing, breath misting in the night air, wind gliding over my skin like cold satin, and then I look Elle right in the eyes, and I speak bright and clear.

“I want Evan.”

Silence falls.

Elle stares at me for a long moment, taking a long, pensive drag of her joint. And then she releases it in one long ribbon and laughs softly, affectionately.

“Then just get back with him already.”

It sounds like an amazing idea, actually. Elle’s so smart. I love her so much. I wrap my arms around her neck and kiss her all along her face, giggling against her ear that I love her and that she’s totally, totally right, feeling giddy and drunk and so, so excited.

Elle pulls away from me with a snort of laughter. She throws away her joint and stomps on it before grabbing my phone out of my tiny bag, looping the gold chain dangling from it around her wrist.

“Here,” she says with a wicked smile, grabbing my hand and dragging me towards the ironwork railing overlooking the black, gleaming water. “Let’s send him something fun.”

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