I accept, and he drapes an arm along the back of my chair as he jumps back into the conversation with his friends.

As I stir the clear liquor with the swizzle stick, the little sports car—a Camaro—flashes in my mind, and a slow smirk finds my lips.

Convertible hair it was.

Chapter 4

I don’t know how these girls drink day in and day out.

I literally feel like death rolled over twice and I had a fraction of what they did last night, as is the continual trend.

They like to give me shit about being ‘unable to hang’ as if such a statement is meant to be an insult. It’s not, but they’re not being assholes about it; it’s safe to say my once elementary school besties realize we’re no longer carbon copies of each other personality-wise. Five years apart will do that.

As I drive home from Cali’s house, where most of us crashed last night, the music flowing through my speakers dies down, as my mother’s weekly call comes through.

I look to the clock and press the button on the wheel to answer.

“Hey, Mom.”

“How was your night?”

“You mean you don’t want to know about my week as a whole?”

She says nothing and I shake my head. “My night was good, we went to Dojo again, had dinner after.” Same as last Friday, as well as the one before.

“You finished your school shopping?”

I put my blinker on, slowing at the red light. “For the most part, yes.”

“Good, good. Gennie should have dropped off your essentials by the time you get in tonight.”

“I told you I could get them.”

“Nonsense. That’s what she was hired for.”

Sure, it was.

“So, what time are you meeting Anthony today?” she asks, as if she’s unaware when she required, set up, and showed me how to manage a shared calendar.

“I’m supposed to go to his office at one. I think we’re eating on the yacht.”

“If he’s not a gentleman, push him over the edge.” My stepdad joins the call. “But make sure it’s at the deepest point so the sharks take care of the evidence, huh?”

I roll my eyes, singsonging, “Hi, Dad.”

He chuckles. “Your mom says you’re staying busy.”

As I turn into my cul-de-sac, a frown builds.

I slow, pretty much inching along, my eyes glued to the Tuscan-style home and the lone vehicle taking up the curved driveway.

Parked in front of the house, three doors from mine, sits the black Camaro from last night.

“Jameson?”

“Huh?”

I look to the open shutters on the home, but movement on the grass pulls my attention.

“Jameson, you still there?”

“Sorry.” I turn away from the young boy wiping at his knees and face forward. “What did you—”

My eyes shoot wide, and I slam on the brakes.