Party Girl (22 page)

After walking me back to the lounge Brody heads off to check in with his staff, and I’m relieved to see him go. For some reason I feel even more nervous around him than before.

Max hands me another shot of tequila as soon as I walk up to the lounge. I clink glasses with her, and we both mutter Sandra’s name . . . Because now it just feels like bad luck not to.

“So . . . That was awkward,” she says at last.

I sigh. “It really, really was. I’m sorry about screaming at your brother.”

“I could have told you, had you just asked,” she says earnestly. Then her face changes to one of annoyance. “Honestly, Landon, I can’t believe you think anyone related to me would be interested in someone so vile.”

“Well, she is really pretty . . .”

“And a terrible person.”

She looks at me seriously. “Look, I don’t like conversations like this but I’ve had a lot of tequila so you’re going to have to deal, OK?”

“OK—”

“Landon, the stuff you said, the stuff she does and says to you . . . It’s bullshit! No job is worth all of that! You need to stand up for yourself or leave altogether.”

I smile sadly because I can tell how uncomfortable it makes her to have a serious conversation, and God bless her for being worked up on my behalf.

“I know what you’re saying, I really do. But it’s only been four months, and I know once I prove myself she’ll see that I’m—”

“No, she won’t!” Max spits at me. “You’re being naive. It’s not going to get better unless you—”

“I found snacks!” Miko singsongs her way into our midst bearing a platter piled high with sliders, little tomato soups with grilled cheese, and various kinds of cookies. It looks delicious, and it’s a welcome distraction from the tense conversation. I grab a slider and take a bite.

“Where did you find these?” I ask between bites.

Max looks like she’s debating whether or not to continue our conversation, but the late-night grub wins out. She plops down on the sofa in front of the tray.

“There are servers passing them around so I snuck into the kitchen looking official and did a swipe.” She breaks off a piece of cookie and pops it into her mouth. “It was just like a Mentos commercial.”

“Good work!” I grab a grilled cheese and ignore the soup it came with. “So should we have another drink before we wrap this night up?”

“We should!” Miko says happily.

“I’m on it!” Max gets up and heads to the bar.

Two hours later we’ve danced our way to last call. Well, Miko and I dance; Max mostly makes fun of us from the sofa while blatantly ignoring the overtures of every male in the room, but we’re all laughing and out of breath by the time we decide we need to call a cab.

“I texted Brody to have someone call for us.” Max looks up from her phone.

I’ve officially danced my hair into a sweaty rat’s nest, so I pull it into a big messy bun on top of my head. I can’t wait to get home and into my pajamas!

“Did Marco get us a cab?” Max asks someone behind me.

“Two a.m. on New Year’s will take at least another hour and half a week’s pay to get a cab home. I can drive you guys,” Brody says, walking up.

He’s removed his jacket, and his sleeves are rolled up on his arms. I must be drunker than I thought because all I can think about is how long he has to work out to have arms that look like that and how someone who works inside all day has skin so tan.

Bad thought, Landon. Bad thought!
I blink twice to clear my head.

“You don’t have to drive us. That would be such a pain.”

I expect the other girls to back me up, but Miko looks like she’s about to fall asleep and Max is already pulling on her jacket, ready to get out of here.

“It’s no trouble. I don’t mind.” Brody reaches over to help Max with her coat.

Nobody else puts up a fight, so I don’t either. I just follow them down to the main floor and out to valet.

“Where’s your ticket?” Brody asks us.

Everyone looks at me, and I realize what he’s asking. “You want to drive my car?” I ask incredulously.

“I have a parking spot here and you don’t.” He says it like it should be obvious. “Plus I’m sure you’ll need it tomorrow.”

“But what about you? How will you get home after you drive us there?” I try and argue.

“I’ll manage, don’t worry. Ticket?” he asks again.

All right, Mr. Moneybags wants to drive my crappy car? This should be interesting. I hand him the ticket, and the valet hustles out to get it. When he pulls up I get in the front seat with Brody, and Max sits behind me. Miko is asleep in the back before I even buckle my seatbelt.

I glance at Brody, and he’s staring dubiously around my car’s interior like something might give him tetanus if he’s not careful. I can’t help but smile at this millionaire sitting behind the wheel of my
twice
-previously owned clunker.

“What vintage is this, exactly?” he asks, with a little furrow in his brow.

“Ninety-seven. It was a good year for Ford.” I smile brightly. “But I’m sure they’d bring your car around if this isn’t up to your standards.”

“I’m sure I have no idea what you’re talking about.” He makes an elaborate show of getting comfortable in the seat.

“Oh my gosh.” I giggle. “You’re a total snob.”

Brody pulls the car out into traffic but he doesn’t even try and defend himself.

“I am, a little. But it’s a knee-jerk reaction that I blame entirely on my parents. A few minutes in and I’m totally fine.” He taps the dashboard affectionately. “In fact, I really like this car. I think I’m going to get a fleet just like this one. Complete with the little vanilla-scented trees.” He nods at the air freshener hanging from my gearshift.

“Such a jerk.” I shake my head and hit the button to turn on the radio.

The whole car shakes with the sound of ABBA’s “Dancing Queen,” which is where we’d left off in my New Year’s playlist earlier.

Max groans in the backseat. “Not this again!”

I laugh. “I told you that if I had to drive, I also got to pick the music. Remember that the next time you want me to be your sober sister.”

I reach for my iPod to change up the music.

“Oh no, you can’t cover it up. Now we know all about your dark love of Swedish pop,” Brody taunts playfully.

It’s funny, tonight he seems so young and carefree and so very un-Brody-like. I lower the volume a bit but not all the way. ABBA is one of my favorites, and I’m not ashamed of it.

“This isn’t the only thing I listen to, it’s just what happened to be on when I shut the car off.”

“Yes, I’m sure your musical taste is extensive.” Brody doesn’t sound convinced at all. Max snorts from the backseat.

“It
is
extensive. I listen to everything, and I know all the words,” I challenge them both.

“All the words?” Max scoots over, rebuckles in the middle seat, and reaches for my pink iPod that’s connected to a cord in the cigarette lighter.

Without missing a beat I start crooning about digging The Dancing Queen. I should probably be embarrassed because I’ve just unleashed my terrible voice on them both, but I’ve had tequila, so . . .

“Hmm . . .” she says, scrolling through the songs in my collection.

There are hundreds upon hundreds of every genre. I have no idea what she expects to find. She presses the button and Kenny Rogers is singing to us now.

So I sing right along with “The Gambler.” I start with the train bound for nowhere, and end up well past the chorus before I start giggling.

“Kenny Rogers is how you thought you’d stump me?
Really
?” I laugh at her over my shoulder.

“Don’t get too cocky yet, princess,” Max says and presses the button again. Now the Black Crowes are singing.

I don’t even miss the opening line; I jump right in there with them about being “Hard to Handle.”

The song switches without warning but I don’t even flinch.

I rap right along with LL Cool J to the old-school mix, including choreographed hand motions when the explosion sound effect hits the car’s speakers.

I understand why she thought I might not know that one, but the joke’s on her because all us girls learned the lyrics at Britney Thompson’s slumber party in eighth grade.

“OK, hold on, this isn’t challenging enough.” Brody grabs the iPod from her and starts scrolling through the songs himself. It takes a minute since he’s also trying to watch the traffic in front of us, and I wait in giddy anticipation. Finally he selects one.

The music comes out, a distinctly eighties sound.

“Ah—” I smile. “I see what you’ve done here,” I call over the loud music.

Brody just smirks back at me.

“You’ve picked a Whitney Houston song, thinking I won’t possibly embarrass myself further by trying to hit the high notes in front of you guys.”

Brody turns the car down another street and looks over at me in challenge.

“But there’s something you don’t know about me,” I say seriously.

“And what’s that?” he asks.

“You don’t know that—that—” I’m stalling, waiting for the right part in the song, and he must know it too because he starts chuckling silently. And then it’s the perfect moment, and both Whitney and I are belting it out about wanting someone to dance with.

I’m bouncing along in my seat, well aware that I look and sound ridiculous, but far too thrilled to be winning this game than to care about it.

“You’re such a nerd,” Max says from the backseat.

I lower the music and nod in agreement. “Yes, but in my defense, I never claimed to be cool.”

After that I turn the regular radio on because Max says her ears would start bleeding if she has to listen to anything else of mine. Thirty minutes later we pull inside our parking garage, and Miko springs up like a jack-in-the-box as soon as the car is in park.

“Ugh!” she moans. “I need some water and, like, half a bottle of Tylenol I think.”

She gets herself out of the car with the grace of a baby rhino and drapes herself across Max for support, ignoring the annoyed sounds of protest she gets in response.

“Lead on, captain!” she says through half-closed eyes.

Max snorts, but starts helping her to the lobby anyway. Brody and I follow behind them, but by the time we get there they’ve already gone up in the elevator. I’ve removed my shoes; I’m suddenly hyperaware of how much taller he is than me.

“Let me wait with you until you get a cab.” I turn and head for the doors to the street without waiting for a response.

He follows me out front and types something quickly into his phone. He drops it back in his pocket and looks down at me. I feel nervous again, and also very short as I look up at him. I need to fill the silence.

“Thank you so much for the ride and for everything tonight. We had such a good time.” I swing my heels back and forth in my hand, anxious.

“I’m glad you had fun.” He smiles sincerely.

I look down at my stocking feet.

“We need to go on a date.”

My head snaps up in utter shock.

He’s asking me on a date?
He’s asking me on a date. I open my mouth but no words come out. I’m fairly sure I look like a deer in the headlights.

I’ve never even been on a real date before, because I doubt this man would count football games and group outings to the Dairy Queen a “real” anything.

“We can’t go on a date.” My voice sounds strangled.

He actually laughs. “And why not?”

I clamber for some explanation that makes sense.

“Because we work together—well
sort of
. Because if my boss finds out, she’ll freak!” I’m counting the reasons off on my fingers as I come up with them in exasperation. “Because I hardly know you. And you’re, like, thirty—”

“Thirty-two actually,” he adds helpfully.

“Thirty-two!” I point at him accusingly “See there, you’re nine years older than I am! No. I’m sorry. We can’t go on a date.” I have the strongest urge to put my shoes back on like some kind of armor.

“OK, we won’t go on a date,” he agrees.

Well that was a little too easy . . .

Now I do start slipping my shoes back on because, even if it seems ridiculous, I need some height for this conversation.

He offers me a hand to steady myself but I bat it away. When I’m back on higher ground, I look at him in challenge. He runs a hand through his hair, but it flops right back over his forehead. I wonder if anyone has ever told him he looks like a Calvin Klein ad.

“We’ll go on a
non
-date.”

“What’s a non-date?” I’m suspicious.

“Two people, hanging out together somewhere, with food involved, and maybe alcohol . . . but with the express understanding that it’s
not
a date.”

And dang it, I smile, because it’s the most ridiculous and adorable thing anyone has ever said to me.

“But you just asked me out.”

“And?”

“Then your non-date is just a date in disguise.” I’m losing traction in this argument. I just know it.

“No, it won’t be a date. It’ll be terrible, I promise. I’ll pick an uncomfortable location, I’ll talk about myself the whole time, you won’t enjoy it at all.” He holds his hand over his heart like he’s making a pledge.

This whole thing is a terrible idea, absolutely destined for failure. How does he not realize that?

“I can’t date you!” I say desperately.

“Why not?”

“Because you’re all,” I flap one hand in his direction, “this. And I’m all,” I make an inarticulate sound and flap the hand around myself, “
not
like you.”

We’re not in the same league; we’re not even on the same planet!

“I like you,” he says, like this solves everything.

I’m flustered and can’t stop myself from asking.

“
Why
?” I’m staring right at him, which sort of makes me breathless, and the question comes out as a nervous little whisper.

He cocks his head to the side and studies me for a second. “Because you’re sarcastic and funny, and you fought me over paying for your drinks tonight when you must know that I can afford it.” As if on cue, a black town car pulls up to the curb. He gives it a quick wave of acknowledgment, then turns back to me. “You’re smart, and you work so hard to do a good job even if you never get credit for it. And because I thought you were adorable the first time I saw you, which is saying a lot since you were choking.” I glare at him and he chuckles. “I liked you then, and I didn’t even know that someday you’d tell me embarrassing stories in a hospital waiting room, or sing Kenny Rogers, or do the absolute worst sprinkler I’ve ever seen.”