One Moment in Time (8 page)

But instead I just say, “Don't wait up!” in this totally fake cheerful voice, and then I turn around and walk out the door.

I'm almost safely out of the lobby when I spot Celia and Paige.

They're sitting in the big leather chairs by the front door. Celia is sipping coffee, and Paige is looking at something on her phone.

Shit, shit, shit. How am I going to slip out to party at some club with the two of them sitting right there? And
what are they doing down here anyway? Celia was just puking not that long ago. Does she really think a cup of coffee is going to fix her up? Actually, she looks remarkably put together for someone who just had a spell.

I start to head back down the hall—there's got to be another door out of this place—when Paige sees me.

“Quinn?” she asks, confused.

I look around and blink rapidly, like I'm surprised to see them here. Then I try to act pleased. “Oh, um, hi! I was just back at your room looking for you, but you guys weren't there. You know, obviously. Because you're down here now.” The lie rolls off my tongue quite easily, and it's actually brilliant. It makes it seem like I was looking for them when I really wasn't. Who knew I was so good at thinking on my feet? Now if only I could come up with some plausible excuse for why I didn't get into Stanford.

“You look amazing!” Celia says. She stands up quickly. “I feel better,” she says. She looks a lot better—the color is back in her face, and her eyes are bright. “I just needed to get it out of my system.” I'm not sure if she means the need to party, or all the alcohol she drank. Either way it's a bit disturbing. She motions to the coffee table, which has a bunch of greasy paper plates scattered on it, along with some pizza crusts. “Plus, I ate pizza, and you know that soaks up alcohol.”

That makes no sense and is actually kind of gross—picturing a bunch of pizza soaking up the alcohol in her stomach. I want to tell her there was probably nothing left to soak up because she threw it all up, but she just keeps talking. “So what are we doing tonight? Obviously you seem like you're ready to parrrty.” She takes my hand and twirls around the lobby, then giggles as she almost falls over. “Oops,” she says. “Not ready for that.”

I think about lying and saying I was going to just spend the night hanging out on the beach or that I don't feel good and want to finish my nap. But there's no way they're going to buy that—not when I'm dressed like this. Maybe I should just nix my entire plan and go to whatever lame party the two of them are planning to go to tonight. I can sip on a warm wine cooler in the corner of some hotel room and then take care of Celia when she gets drunk.

But what would be the point? It's just going to leave me completely depressed, and then tomorrow I'm going to wake up and everything's going to be exactly the same. I'm going to be here, in Florida, avoiding my mom, with no internship and no Stanford.

Before graduation, I promise to . . . do something crazy.

I want to do it. I want to do something crazy.

So I pull the wrinkled flyer about the party out of my purse and show it to Celia. “I want to go to this,” I say.

She studies the paper, then looks up at me, her eyes wide.
“This looks awesome,” she says. “What has gotten into you, Quinn Reynolds?”

“I don't know,” I say, shaking my head. “I guess I'm just ready for a change.”

AN HOUR LATER—PAIGE AND CELIA HAD TO
get ready—we're walking down the strip to the Ocean Club. It's a lame name for a club, but I'm hoping the inside is going to be more fun than the name implies.

“Now listen,” Celia says, “when we get in there, make sure to flirt with some of the college guys, the ones who are over twenty-one.” She tilts her head and thinks about it. “But no guys who are too good-looking—focus on the ones who are nice but a little homely. Like a Seth Rogen type. That way they'll buy us drinks. You know, because they're desperate.”

There's so much wrong with this statement that I don't even know where to begin. I resist the urge to point out that Seth Rogen is actually really cute and has a hot wife and is, like, a gazillionaire who's super successful and smart. Also, why should we make guys think they're going to get to hook
up with us so they'll buy us alcohol? That seems almost as skeezy as the guys plying us with drinks because they think they might get lucky.

I look over to Paige so we can share a secret eye roll, but she just nods at Celia and keeps walking.

I sigh, wondering again how the hell I'm friends with these two. But when we get to the club, I'm actually glad I have them with me. Something about being alone outside a club is a little scary. I've never been to a club before. I've only seen them on TV.

The bouncer checks our IDs—it's a seventeen-and-over club, but the people who are over twenty-one are getting blue ink stamps on their hands. For a moment, Celia gives the bouncer a big smile, the smile I've seen her give when she's trying to get something from someone. But he gives her a
don't even think about it
look.

Inside, the club is dark, and it takes a few minutes for my eyes to adjust. As soon as they do, I start to relax. This isn't the kind of club you see on TV, the kind that's seedy and scary-looking, with leather couches and tons of people dancing and grinding on each other.

In fact, it's sort of the opposite. There's an oval-shaped bar in the middle of the dance floor, and electric-blue lights in the shape of palm trees are draped lazily across the ceiling. Almost every seat at the bar is full, and there are a lot of people on the dance floor, but it's not super crowded yet.
Plus, you have to step down into that section—the part where we're standing has a bunch of high-tops scattered around a few pool tables.

“Let's a get a table and some sodas,” I suggest. Now that I'm here, I'm actually a little disappointed. I'm starting to realize that going to a club isn't really all that crazy. Yes, it's put me out of my comfort zone, but now what? Do I dance? Get drunk? It all seems so uninteresting.

“Okay,” Celia says. “But I don't want to waste too much time just sitting.” Her eyes are scanning the room, looking for a mark.

“Him, him, him!” Paige screeches, grabbing at Celia's arm. “That one!” She points to a paunchy-looking guy sitting at a table with a couple of his buddies.

Celia looks over at Paige and gives her an admiring look. “Good job, Paige,” she says. “Couldn't have done it better myself.”

Paige beams.

I wait at the table while the two of them go and order us some Diet Cokes. But as soon as they return with our drinks, they decide they need something stronger.

“Diet Coke is for wimps,” Paige whines.

“It totally is,” Celia says. She eyes the guys over in the corner again. “Come on, let's go get them to buy us some drinks.”

Paige jumps up happily.

“I think I'll just wait here,” I say. “We don't want anyone to take our table.” It's a totally useless thing to say—there aren't enough people here to take our table. But flirting with college guys to try to get them to buy us drinks doesn't sound fun. At all.

“Fine,” Celia says, sounding annoyed. “But just so you know, if we can't get drinks here, we should go back to the hotel. There are, like, a million parties going on, and they're all going to have alcohol.”

She gives me a look, like I'm the one who should be blamed for dragging her out here when I'm not even the one who wanted her to come.

I sigh and watch as the two of them saunter over to the table of guys and then sit down and introduce themselves.

Right on cue, my phone buzzes with my email again.

Before graduation, I promise to . . .
do something crazy.

Yeah, but
what?
Sitting here at this table while Paige and Celia flirt with average-looking college boys so they can score drinks is actually really pathetic.

What was I thinking, coming here? I'm not the kind of girl who gets dressed up and goes out and mingles and dances. I should be at home, in bed, doing homework or applying for new internships. But the only reason I would be doing any of that was to make sure I got into Stanford. Now that I'm not getting into Stanford, homework and internships and extracurriculars seem totally pointless. My whole
life
seems completely pointless. I'm just about to get up and walk out the door and back to the hotel when someone breathes into my ear.

“Fancy seeing you here.” The voice is deep and warm, and slightly familiar. The hairs on the back of my neck stand up, and a delicious warmth fills my belly.

I turn around.

The owner of the voice grins. “Hey, Tiffany.”

It's him.

The guy from the beach.

“What's new?” he asks, and sits down in the seat next to me, like we're old friends who haven't seen each other in a while instead of strangers who just met this morning.

“Oh, you know,” I say, taking a sip of my drink and trying to sound nonchalant. “Same old, same old. Avoiding the paparazzi, working on million-dollar mergers.” It's supposed to sound like a joke, but it comes out sounding a little forced and weird.

“So nothing really new since this morning then,” he says conversationally.

“Nope, nothing really new.”

I fiddle with my drink and then finally look up at him. He looks like he knows he's making me uncomfortable and that he's actually enjoying it.

“Are you here by yourself?” he asks.

“Oh, no,” I say quickly, not wanting him to think I came
here just to see him. “I'm with my two friends.” I point to Paige and Celia over in the corner. As I do, Celia throws her head back, laughing at something one of the guys she's with is saying.

“They're trying to scam drinks, huh?” he asks.

“Yup,” I say, before realizing it might not be the best idea to admit that. If he works here, then should I really be telling him that my underage friends are trying to get guys to buy them alcohol? What if he kicks them out? Or worse, calls the police? “I mean, sodas. They're trying to scam sodas.”

“Right.” He leans back in the chair, balancing it on its back legs in a way that looks really dangerous. But he doesn't seem nervous about falling. In fact, just the opposite. He seems totally relaxed and in control. His fingertips tap the high-top to the beat of the music.

“So what's your real name?” I ask, because I need to say something, otherwise it's just him sitting across from me, looking at me in that very disconcerting (albeit sexy) way.

“You tell me first,” he says.

“Quinn.”

He grins. “That's a really pretty name.”

No guy has ever called my name pretty before. No guy has ever called anything about me pretty before. Not that I don't think I'm attractive. I mean, I'm not unattractive. I don't think. But I'm not what you'd consider sexy or anything like that. I have dark hair and I love my blue eyes, but
my features are tiny and kind of delicate, which makes me cute. I'm not gorgeous or hot or any of the other kinds of things that make guys my age get all excited, like they do with Celia and her big hair and her big boobs.

He puts his chair down, then leans across the table. “How come you're not over there with your friends?”

I shake my head. “I don't drink.”

“So?”

“So why would I go over there and try to get drinks from those guys?”

“I thought you said they were getting Cokes.” He sits up and pushes his shoulders back. “Now that you've told me that, I'm going to have to report them.”

“Um, I wasn't—”

He grins. “Relax, Quinn. I was just kidding. I don't care what your friends do. But seriously, how come you're over here all by yourself?”

I shake my head. “No way. Tell me your name first.”

“Abram.”

“Is that for real?”

He smiles. “Yeah. Now tell me why you're over here all by yourself.”

“I don't know.” I sigh. “I guess maybe I just wanted a break from them.”

“From your friends?”

“Yeah.” We both turn and look over to where Celia
and Paige are sitting. The waitress brings over a round of drinks and sets them down on their table, and as soon as she's gone, Paige climbs into the lap of a guy with a soul patch on his chin.

“Yeah,” Abram says, “they definitely seem like the type of girls you'd need a break from.” I like that he can recognize that just from seeing the way the two of them are acting. Maybe I should be upset that he's judging them, but it's the opposite—I'm glad someone's actually forming an opinion about Celia and Paige based on how they act, instead of how they look.

I'm finished with my drink, and I run my hand over the rim of the glass, my finger getting cold from the condensation. “So what about you?” I ask. “Shouldn't you be working?”

“I'm promotions,” he says. “So all I have to do is get people in the door. I hand out flyers on the beach all day, then hope that I'm charming enough to get everyone to show up.” He grins at me. “Obviously, I'm good at my job.”

“I didn't come here because of you!” I protest.

“Okay.” He shrugs, like it doesn't matter to him if I did or not.

“I didn't!”

“I said okay.”

“But you said it like you don't believe me.”

He shrugs again.

“So then why are you here?” I ask. “I mean, if you don't have to work. Did you come just to hang out and party?”

“No,” he says. “I was looking for you.”

I look up from the melting ice in my drink, expecting to see that same flirtatious gaze he was staring at me with earlier. But to my surprise, he looks completely serious.

“Yeah, right,” I say, rolling my eyes. But my heart is beating strong in my chest, hoping he's telling the truth.

“No, seriously. I really was hoping you'd come.”

“Okay.” I'm not sure what to say to that. He has to be lying, right? I mean, he doesn't know anything about me. All he knows is that he met me on the beach, he gave me a flyer, and I showed up here. I'm not stupid enough to think I'm the first girl he's claimed to be waiting for. It's probably his mode of operation, what he does to get innocent tourists to sleep with him.

The club is getting busier now, and Abram looks at the people streaming through the door and nods in satisfaction, like he's responsible for it. Which I guess he is.

But then he turns to me. “Do you want to get out of here?”

“What?”

“Do you want to leave?”

“With you?”

“Yes, with me.”

“I don't . . . I mean, I'm with my friends.”

He looks back over to where Celia and Paige are sitting. We watch as one of the schlubbier-looking guys slides shots across the table. Celia and Paige pound them down, and everyone in their group cheers. Celia and Paige roll their eyes at each other when they think no one's looking, like they can't believe they have to do shots with such losers just to get drunk.

“Yeah,” Abram says sarcastically. “They seem really concerned about you.”

“I can't
leave
with you,” I say. “I just met you, like, five seconds ago.” I mean, how stupid could I be? Leaving a club with some guy I know nothing about? That's insane. It's how people end up disappearing and/or chopped up into a million pieces, just like my brother said.

“Five hours.”

“What?”

“We met five hours ago. On the beach.” He looks at his watch. I like that he's wearing a watch—it's one of those sports ones, the kind that's waterproof, and something about it is ridiculously sexy. “Actually, it's probably been seven or eight hours by now.”

“Still,” I say. “Knowing someone for seven or eight hours isn't enough to justify leaving a club with them.”

“Isn't it?” He reaches out and grabs the pepper shaker
off the table and starts sliding it back and forth between his hands. The whole time his eyes are on mine, waiting for me to decide.

“I can't just leave with you,” I say again. “I don't know anything about you.”

“You know my name. And where I work.”

“But that's all.”

“True,” he says seriously. He cocks his head and pretends to think about it. “I think you're right. It wouldn't really make sense for us to hang out. Since I'm a stranger and everything.”

“It
wouldn't
make sense,” I say. “It wouldn't be
smart
.” I resist the urge to list all the reasons it's a bad idea, because I don't want to insult him by implying he could be a psycho murderer. Besides, it's really not something that needs to be explained. Is he used to girls just going home with him? He doesn't seem surprised I don't want to leave with him. But he doesn't seem particularly upset about it, either. Does he figure that if I turn him down he'll just find someone else to take home? I'm vaguely repulsed, but also slightly excited, like I'm going to miss my chance. Which is awful and against any kind of feminism, like, ever.

And then I remember that stupid email.

Before graduation, I promise to . . .
do something crazy.