MADISON

Denise aims a purple fingernail directly at my nose. “You don’t have to work tomorrow!”

“I don’t.”

“The day after?”

“Yes.”

“Then you’ve got a full day to sleep it off.” She grabs my hand as I make a break for it. “Where do you think you’re going? We are dancing tonight!”

“Denise!”

“No no no, you aren’t disappearing into your itty-bitty cave this time, Madison Greeley-Smith, you are staying by my side until I say the party is over, you got me?”

“Fine.”

If we hadn’t met when we were tiny and non-judgmental, in pre-school, there is no way we would be friends. That would have been a tragedy for both of us. We’ve been through the good, the bad, and the uglies of life together.

I’m her rock and she’s my wind.

But if we met now, this Denise wouldn’t even have seen me, that’s how much I blend into the walls. And she’s way too gregarious and scary for me to have ventured an optimistic, ‘Hey, wanna play?’

But when we were little Deenies and Maddies, a magical and undefinable something brought us together.

On a whim I gave her my cookie one day. Surprised, she took it and stayed with me while she ate it. The next day she walked hers over to me, and I ate it while she told me about her sister. I listened and told her I didn’t have a sister. She said she’d be mine if I wanted one.

We did that for an entire school-year, every other day eating two cookies, the other having none, happy our friend was enjoying double because we knew how cool that felt…and what a sacrifice it was. Cookies were, are, and always will be, national treasures.

When Mike Coleman pushed me in the second grade and I skinned my knees to a bloody pulp, Denise beat him up and was sent home for the day. I snuck out of school, ran to her house a whole five blocks away. That’s a long way to travel for an insecure seven-year-old, but I’d go much farther if she ever needed me to console her again.

We’ve got each other’s backs.

No matter what.

Which is why I wish she’d let me go home!

I hate parties.

Especially Billy’s.

There’s a man who comes to every single one of these ragers and he is so gorgeous, it literally hurts to see him.

Every single time, he’s in the arms of some beautiful woman, gnawing on her like a man who knows how. The females are never the same, and sometimes there are two a night!

I think ‘girlfriend’ is a word he cannot comprehend even exists. I’ve thought of bringing a dictionary and showing him that it does exist, and he doesn’t have to be such a slut.

I’d paste my picture onto the page, pointing at it with innocence in hopes that he’d get the hint.

Nicholas Cocker.

Fuck, how I adore you.

Gah. Groan. Moan. Cry. Sob.

The first time I saw that six-foot-two-inch god I choked on my own tongue. My heart did the hokey-pokey. And my feet wanted to run. Toward him.

Frozen, I gaped at his smile, the light in his caramel-brown eyes, mesmerizing. But he looked right through me. I’ve seen him at least a dozen times now and it’s like he cannot see me. Sure I blend. But with him I wish I wouldn’t.

My blood hardens every time he backs some other woman against a wall to make out with her in front of everyone. Even his future wife…me.

Snort.

As if.

Sardines would call this house party too crowded as we cut through shoulder-to-shoulder socialites on our way to the overly popular counter where Billy Cooper keeps the booze.

All of the normal furniture was removed a couple of years back after Billy’s parents took a hike to sunny Florida where they could watch seagulls pooping on copper bodies.

Billy started as a club promoter here in Atlanta and was so incredibly gifted at gathering cool people in one hot place that he quit working for bosses who kept the majority of the cash, and grew a business of socializing strictly for his own profit and entertainment.

They say if you make money doing what you love you’ll never work a day in your life.

Billy’s perpetual smile is an indication that they are wise.

He charges a pretty steep cover to keep liquor flowing and music jamming at a beat that moves your body. And people gladly pay what he deserves for taking them out of the doldrums for blessedly amusing hours.

Satisfied, my best friend is currently bouncing to the tunes but her fingers are in a vice around mine.

Billy spots her, his spiky hair standing even higher as he shouts, “Denise, try my meatballs!”

“Honey, you’ve been wanting me to eat your meat for years!”

“One of these days you will!”

“You wish!” As we pass him, she whispers to me under the music, “That boy is adorable!”

His parties really are bare-bones, but that’s part of the charm. It can get dirty—you can spill stuff, stand on chairs, paint on walls, anything goes. A few sofas are thrown here and there, but no tables. One couch in the living room is so stained it’s a wonder people are laughing on it right now!

Just the right amount of nasty.

There’s never a paid bartender—it’s a fend-for-yourself situation. And because everyone wants to drink, that spells mosh-pit rather than organized lines at the bar. As we stand among a mass of unsatisfied thirst, Denise’s eyes light up at something behind me.

“Look at them!”

I turn around and my lips part.

There he is.

The ridiculously popular man of my dreams has a lucky brunette pinned to a wall. The way Nicholas Cocker kisses isn’t like anyone else. You don’t have to be the recipient of his attention to know that he is skilled. Screw the cover fee for alcohol. Billy should charge a ticket for this show.

Nicholas is dressed in a stylish button-up, the sleeves rolled to mid-perfect-forearm since it’s so warm in here. Although I think the heat is all from him.

His jeans should be hung in the High Museum of Art. Yes, the people who named it didn’t know it would make the house of culture sound stoned. But his ass should be on display there because I am buzzed just by the sight.

How his hands move over that lucky woman’s body inspires an involuntary shiver of I-wish-that-were-me.

And my heart sinks to a depth unsustainable. This is why I avoid these parties, though I won’t tell Denise, that man is my downfall. For some reason I believe that if I don’t say it aloud, maybe one day this crazy instinct that we’re supposed to be together, will finally disappear. I used to believe in it, but after seeing his tongue shoved in so many mouths…kinda hard to dream.

As gorgeous as Nicholas is, and as much as his smile seems genuine, his friendship with Matthew real and good, I do not believe he knows how to love. He wants this superficial bang-em-and-leave-em game, and to me it’s empty. To him it’s life.

I may not look like someone who walked off a magazine cover, but I could make him laugh if he’d let me.

What would it be like to be kissed by him? Molded by his fingers? Grinded against like some prize-winning salsa dancer is showing me his moves? Nicholas kisses with such fluidity, she’s practically cumming in front of everyone.

Sigh.

Motherfucking sigh sigh sigh.

Madison.

Come on.

Don’t do this to yourself.

I drop my proud gaze to the floor.

“Maddie?” Denise gently says.

“Huh?” I look over, quickly hiding my discouragement. “What?”

“You look like someone broke your heart.”