“It’s locked,” I tell him. “Can you stick to your own bourbon tonight?” His flask stays in the waist of his belt that matches his red and black suit.
“Hold on.” He departs for a second, vanishing around the corner and I pretend to be interested in a still life painting on the wall. Better to look fascinated by apples and pears than like a lonely loser.
Lo returns moments later with a safety pin.
“Lo,” I warn as he starts to wiggle it into the keyhole. “We just got here. I don’t want to get kicked out.”
“You’re distracting me,” he says.
Visions of high school parties swim to me. Lo creeping down the cellar of a kid’s house—a kid who invited everyone in his grade. Those parties happened far too often. Lo would drink the vintage wines and imported scotches, the angered host dragging him out by the shirt. Lo stumbling to stay upright. Me, exiting the bathroom with flushed cheeks, only to hurry after my only friend.
I don’t like repeating mistakes, but sometimes, I think we’re both forever stuck on a turntable.
Even with the smokers’ chatter by the stove, I hear the click of the lock. The glass doors swing open, and Lo’s eyes light up. Watching him delicately touch the bottles with hungry anticipation reminds me of my desires.
Which is why I blurt out, “You want to do it in the bathroom?” My voice remains small and timid, not yet a confident, sexy girl that I’m sure fills Lo’s dreams. It’s hard to be her when Lo isn’t a conquest I sleep with and then ditch.
“Huh?” Distracted, he gathers the best liquors in his arms and sets them on the granite counter beside me.
“After you drink, do you want to go to the bathroom to…” I trail off, fearing the fatal blow of rejection.
He pops the crystal plunger on a bottle and tips the liquid in a glass. “I thought I rocked your world,” he says. “Unless I imagined you saying it. You were making all kinds of noises, so it was hard to tell.”
My elbows blush as I remember the scandalous acts before we left. “You heard incorrectly. I don’t think it was possible to form actual words.”
He smiles and then takes a languid sip from his liquor.
“But,” I continue, “we’ve only done it at the apartment or on the yacht.”
He looks back to the depths of his drink. “Is that something you have to have?” he asks. “I didn’t think location was a big fucking deal.” He grimaces at his biting tone and then throws the rest of the liquor back in his throat. He refills the glass quickly.
I open my mouth but end up looking like a fish trying to breathe air. Where we have sex shouldn’t matter, but there’s an allure to doing it somewhere deviant. Always has been. “Okay.” The one word does not properly answer his question or his rudeness.
He clenches his jaw, fingers tightening on the glass. “I’m stuck in this suit anyway. Unless you want to cut a hole for my—”
“No.” I hold up my hands. “You’re right.”
“And in case you’ve forgotten, Laura,” he emphasizes X-23’s real name. “It’s my fucking birthday.” He raises his glass. “Which means this trumps that.” He eyes my nether region.
“You’re so much like Julian it’s scary.” I use his superhero’s real name. Both can be moody, irritable jerks and then do a flip and be the sweetest guys ever. You just have to catch them at the right time, the right moment.
“Wrong. I have both my arms.” Hellion lost his arms fighting Sentinels in X-Men: Second Coming. Madison Jefferies created metal hands for Hellion, now a new signature part of his wardrobe, but Lo ditches those because it hinders his ability to hold a flask.
My eyes dart nervously around the kitchen, half expecting Thomas Jefferson to pop up and berate Lo.
“If you don’t want to stand here, go hang out with Connor.”
“You trust me?” I wonder.
“I sincerely think that Connor is asexual. Like a sponge. He probably wouldn’t even notice if you hit on him.”
I want to mention my theory about Connor crushing on Rose, but Lo will probably make a snide remark about her. I’d rather not start a fight by having to defend my sister while she’s not here.
“What about other people? Do you trust me with them?”
He gives me a sharp glare. “I don’t know. Now you’re making me think I should be fucking worried.” He’s in a foul mood. I’m not sure what put him there. Maybe the familiar atmosphere brings bad memories and he wishes we stayed home. Or maybe he’d rather be drinking with his father and smoking a cigar than be here, celebrating in a strange house with strange people that mean nothing to him.