Page 81 of A Flighty Fake Boyfriend
Low clouds had swept in, blanketing the coastline. Visibility wasn’t a problem, but a translucent mist hung in the air, creating spheres of light around the streetlamps and moistening my skin. Salt laden air competed with the aroma of frying tortilla chips and roasting meat.
I itched for a cigarette. I should have gotten a patch if I was really going to quit. As I approached, I saw Epic on the boardwalk and waved.
“There’s my guy. Come and kiss me before I do something rash.” He bit his lip. “Hi.”
“Hi.” I said the word too fondly. There was no lying about this anymore—not to others and not to myself. Epic was a perfectly pristine lagoon on a tropical island. Every time I saw him, I happily drowned in the cool blue of his eyes.
“You ready to drink?” he asked.
“Um—”
“You didn’t eat, did you?” He caught my chin. “I knew I should have taken you something on my break.”
“I should have set an alarm.”
He took my arm and towed me to the restaurant. “If you’re going to be Batman, you’ll need to get yourself an Alfred. You have a cleaner. Hire a chef when you get back or at least subscribe to a meal service.”
“That’s a pretty good idea, actually.”
“Duh.” He opened the door of Nacho’s Bar for me. Live music thumped through my chest as we walked inside. He pointed out his friends, who had pushed two tables together. The waitress was serving drinks, beers, and shots, and the mood was raucous already.
“Hey, guys.” Epic clinked his glass loudly with a fork. Every eye turned his way. “This is Ryan Winslow. He’s the one I went to the wedding with.”
“Hello.” I waved my hand.
“Oh my God, he is a Disney prince. Too bad Cinderfella had to come home. I heard the resort was amazing.”
Epic grinned. “It was.”
“And you know Lawrence Dunbar?” one of the girls squealed. “Oh God. Why couldn’t you have been looking for a fake girlfriend?”
“That’s Bea,” Epic said, pointing. “She’s my roommate.”
“Nice to meet you.” I put my hand over the table to shake hers.
She shook it and then pretended it burned. “So hot.”
Epic got me a chair from somewhere. “Bea’s friend over there is Muse.”
Muse wore several piercings in her ears, eyebrows, and nose. Her hair was black and silky, cut in a fashionable bob. “Hello, Muse. Nice to meet you.”
We shook.
“And that’s Lonnie.” A younger, dark-haired man waved from the other end of the table. There were three other young men—Kellan, Zaid, and Max.
I waved at all of them, suddenly and acutely aware I was the oldest person there by at least thirteen years.
“What are you drinking?” asked Bea.
“He’s not drinking until he eats something.” Epic called the waitress over and ordered a couple of appetizers from the bar menu. “Is Oscar still here? Can you ask if he can make me a salad, pretty please?”
I tried to argue. “Epic that’s—”
“If he can’t, he can’t,” Epic argued.
“It’s fine. I’ll ask,” she assured him. “Anything to drink?”
I glanced at Epic, who graciously allowed me to order that for myself. “Maker’s Mark and a Moosehead if you’ve got it, please.”
