It came in handy during times like this, when she was surrounded by her sister’s friends in a loud, frenzied club in Las Vegas. She could pretend to be having the time of her life, and none of these bright, shiny people would notice.

If she thought it wouldn’t ruin her sister’s night, she’d be back in their suite, heels kicked off, stripped of her too-tight dress, and butt-naked. She could almost feel the hot water saturating her scalp, as it washed away the make-up, perspiration, and bad choices.

Except, she was pretty sure she wouldn’t make it to the shower. She’d walk in the door, collapse on the bed, heels dangling off her blistered feet, and bawl her eyes out. Wake up in the morning with mascara streaks on the white pillowcase.

Nope, we’re not doing that. It’s Gigi’s night. It had taken her older sister a long time to come back from a devastating high school heartbreak, but two years ago she’d grabbed hold of an opportunity that turned her into an international pop star. She was finally healed and kicking ass. Coco wouldn’t do anything to bring her down.

At that exact moment, her sister, fresh from her sold-out concert, hiked herself up on a chair and lifted her lemon drop martini. “To Colette,”—Gigi used her real name as if to emphasize how mature Coco had become—“happy graduation and, more importantly, happy birthday. Finally, you’re old enough to drink, old enough to—"

“Gamble,” one of the women shouted over the insanely loud club music.

“Become a pilot,” someone else shouted.

“Play with the big boys,” a deep voice called.

All of them whipped around to find a group of men sauntering over. Where everyone else in the club dressed in suits and cocktail dresses, these guys wore T-shirts and jeans. With their overgrown hair, tan skin, and laidback attitudes, they could easily have been surfers.

Her sister’s entourage broke out laughing, an invitation for the guys to join them.

Gigi, still on the chair, shouted, “She’s already got a boyfriend, so there’ll be none of that.”

The words splashed cold water on her heart, giving her a shock, but her sister didn’t need to know that. She’d catch Gigi up tomorrow. For now, Coco held her drink high and said a cheery, “Thanks, guys!” She sipped her martini, fighting back the roar of anxiety that threatened to pull her under.

I don’t have a boyfriend.

I don’t have a job.

She didn’t have anything.

A moment later, Pitbull’s “Timber” came on, and the whole group jumped up and dashed onto the dance floor, waving their arms and shaking their booties, leaving Coco blissfully alone. Thank God. She could finally relax her straining facial muscles.