Page 36 of The Rehoboth Retreat
I sighed and took another sip.
Then, suddenly, I could feel a sharp intensity of pain reach my foot again.
Well, shit.
So, apparently, when a doctor says to stay off your foot, they mean it. But I’d been vertical for all of two minutes just to get a drink—clomping around like a drunk flamingo, mind you—and I could already tell this was going to be one hell of a miserable experience.
I wasn’t built for confinement. I was built for movement. For flirtation. For scandal. For at least three different types of tequila before noon. Sitting still wasn’t mything—unless I was posing, and even then, only if the lighting was good.
I stood at the edge of my living room, one crutch leaning against the wall like it offended me, and my weight awkwardly shifted onto my good foot. The stitched one throbbed ever so slightly, like a drunk ex who didn’t know when to stop texting. It wasn’t excruciating—just enough to remind me I was, in fact, still fragile. God forbid.
This? This was unacceptable. Hudson Knight did not suffer in silence. He threw noise, distraction, and at least one glitter bomb. If I couldn’t go out and own Baltimore Avenue tonight, then hell, I was going to bring Baltimore Avenue to me.
I sank onto the couch and pulled my phone from the side table. Time to start planning the most ridiculous, last-minute, mid-recovery soirée Rehoboth Beach had ever seen.
First, the guest list.
I scrolled through my recent contacts—some met at Diego’s nightclub, then there were the usual crowds at Aqua, others at that brunch place with bottomless bellinis, and one guy who sold me overpriced sunscreen but had abs that could convince me to buy anything.
I started typing:
Hey. What are you doing tonight? I’m throwing something. You in? If so, feel free to bring friends.
Copy. Paste. Send. Send. Send.
The replies started coming in almost immediately:
I’m so in.
Wait, are you serious?
Hell yeah. Can I bring two friends?
God, I was fucking good at this.
I messaged a few of the local drag queens I’d met at Aqua and Purple Parrot last week. Told them there was a pool, a sound system, and unlimited drinks. One of them replied with a GIF of a wig being snatched, so I assumed that was a yes.
I made a list of what I’d need:
Music?Check. I had speakers that could shake the walls.
Drinks?Check.
Lighting? I’d have to call my assistant to hire someone to come over and have it set up or otherwise, improvise. However, I owned a few disco balls because, of course, I did. Now, there was just the theme to pick out.
Did I need a theme?
Hell yeah, I did.
I sat back, twirling my glass, squinting at the ceiling like inspiration would fall from the air vents.
Poolside Debauchery?Crutches & Cocktails?
Bash the Beachfelt too aggressive.
Operation: Don’t Let Hudson Be Boredwas too honest.
Then it hit me.
