Under the Lights

It’s too late. A hot, buzzing ache is already snaking its way through my body. I try to remember the last time I felt this way, but I know the truth — I never have. I’ve never wanted this badly. I’ve kissed Liam Holloway and Josh Chester and Zander Wilson — hell, I’ve hugged Brad Freakin’ Pitt — and never have I felt lightning striking me from the inside out the way I do right now, with just Bri’s cool breath on my skin.

“Are you down for another shot?”

Her voice is playful in my ear, promising, knowing. My brain is already swirling; one more shot and I’ll be unconscious, despite the fact that I haven’t had that much to drink. I don’t want to be any foggier, though. I don’t want to come down off this feeling at all.

I shake my head. I don’t have any words other than ones too dangerous to speak aloud. Instead, I simply slide to the end of the banquette, tugging my dress down to cover my thighs, and squeeze her wrist once before getting up and making my way as calmly as possible to the restroom.

My heart is pounding so hard that I’m trembling in my stilettos as I push through the crowd. I have no idea whether she’s following me, but I want her to so badly, my skin feels too tight for my body.

And just when I’m sure she won’t — that I’ve misunderstood or misread or something—there’s a warmth at my back, a “hey” holding a hint of question.

I barely even glance around to make sure no one’s watching before I swing open the door to the bathroom and yank her inside.

“Jesus, Park.” She takes a deep, slow breath. “What are we doing here?” Her voice is faint, and I almost miss it over the blood rushing through my ears. She’s backed up against the door, and she grips the knob like she wants a way out. Only she doesn’t take it.

“Go if you want to,” I say, my voice equally quiet. I can’t muster any more than that. I’m straining too hard to keep my body still, to keep from doing something I shouldn’t.

“I don’t.” Her thumb presses the lock on the knob, but she continues to grasp it. “You know I don’t.”

“I don’t know anything.” My pulse is racing and my palms are sweating and I truly don’t know — how this is happening or what comes next or any of it. “I just…” I can’t say it. I can’t. But I want it. I do. “Help me,” I whisper.

Soft hands cup the nape of my neck and then her lips are on mine, or my lips are on hers. She made the move but somehow I’m the one in control, pushing her up against the door, gripping her wrists. Beneath me, she’s warm and pliable, and when she parts her lips, I don’t hesitate for a second to accept the invitation.

She tastes like vodka and lip gloss, sweet with the tiniest bit of bitterness, and it’s perfect. All of it. I know it should be weird, and I should feel weird, but I just feel…good. And so does she. Her lips are soft and her skin is smooth and she is one hundred percent girl, but there is no one on earth I’d rather be kissing.

And I really do love her mouth.

My hands slide from her wrists to her hips, thumbs seeking out the soft skin just above the waistband of her jeans. Her fingers clutch at the stretchy fabric of my dress as she pulls me closer. It’s sliding dangerously high up my thighs, and I’m not sure if she notices.

I hope she does.

She pulls back, though, just enough to whisper, “What the hell is happening right now?”

Oh God. “Am I doing it wrong?”

Her laughter is breathless against my lips. “God, no. Not at all. But…you’re straight.”

“Actually,” I say, my voice shaky as my fingertips travel higher, “I’m not so sure about that.”

I wait for a jaw drop or a look of shock or something, but all I get is a slow grin over her kiss-swollen lips. “I knew it.”

I yank my hands out from under her shirt and step back. “Seriously, Bri?” I drop my voice as low as humanly possible, despite knowing no one can hear us over the pulsing music. “I tell you I like girls and your reaction is to be smug about it?”

“Crap, Van, no.” She reaches for my hand, and I let her take it, watching as she intertwines her fingers with mine. “I just…hoped. I’ve been hoping, ever since we met at Josh’s party. I’ve imagined this so many times that at some point it just became impossible to imagine it wouldn’t happen.”

Our hands swing naturally, delicate and girly, indistinguishable except for the darker tone of my skin. “You’ve pictured this, huh?”

“Nonstop,” she says sheepishly, her black-painted thumbnail tracing an arc over the back of my hand. “You haven’t?”

“If I hadn’t, we wouldn’t be here.”

“Oh, I think we would’ve ended up here one way or another.” She slips her free hand into my hair and rests her forehead against mine. “But now what?”

“I have no idea,” I admit. “You’re the PR pro. And this is a mess.”

“It is, isn’t it?” She glances back at the door. “We probably don’t have much longer in here, and we can’t exactly go back to my place, or to yours. Even a hotel’s out of the question.”

I’ve never wanted to kick myself so hard for the fact that I still live with my parents.