!â
If thatâs Matias, I already like him. My Spanish might be rusty, but Iâm pretty sure heâs just called Nick an asshole.
Nick tosses the controller and grunts. âThink you can do better?â
The two of them are stretched out on a leather sofa that floats in the middle of the room. An antique jukebox in the corner pumps out a Maroon 5 tune, while Chelsea hip-checks the right side of a pinball machine into submission. The overhead light flashes, sirens wail. She fist-pumps the air. âTake that!â
Matias leans forward to push the reset button on the Xbox. Need for Speed splashes onto the screen, the intro music drowning out a crooning Adam Levine.
âCheck this.â Matiasâs thumbs work in tandem to move a Lamborghini onto the virtual track. âControl. Vision. Determination. These are the fundamental components of a race car driââ
Nick snorts. âFuck you, man.â
To my left, a small stage backs up against a wall cluttered with framed photosâThe Doors, Jim Morrison, a bunch of famous people I barely recognize. My eyes are drawn to an autographed picture of an actress who looks vaguely familiar. Sheâs stunning.
Beneath the collage, a pink karaoke machine blink-blink-blinks, like a slot machine at the Flamingo.
Ugh. Iâm so not into this.
I start to back away when Chelsea traps me in one of her high beams. âJules!â
Busted.
âGuys, Jules is here!â
Matias shifts around on the sofa and grins. Loose, dark brown curls frame his naturally bronzed skin. âMat,â he says, raising the controller over his head in a half-wave of introduction.
Nick doesnât bother acknowledging me, and for some reason it stings.
âNeed for Speed,â I say, a weak attempt at conversation. I hate how awkward this is. âIâm more of a Grand Theft Auto girl.â
Nick mutters under his breath. âShocker.â
My stomach clenches.
Chelsea waves her hand in dismissal. âIgnore Mr. Grumpy Pants over there. He doesnât like to lose.â After an exaggerated eye roll that suggests boys-will-be-boys, she motions to the pinball machines spaced evenly against the wall. âWanna play? Weâve got the classicsâlike Pac-Man, babyâand a few newer games.â She clucks her tongue with mock cockiness. âCurrently, Iâm kicking the crap out of Lara Croft. This Tomb Raider chickâs got nothing on me.â
âYou probably rigged the machine,â Mat calls out over his shoulder.
âThatâs more your style,â Chelsea quips.
I wet my lips, hesitating. âThink Iâll just go to bed. Iâm kind of beat.â
âDonât let the door hit you on the way out,â Nick says.
Anger shoots through me. âWhatâs your fucking problem?â
I spin around to glare at him, but his eyes are glued to the TV, stony profile unwavering. The Lamborghini crashes and explodes in a ball of flame. Mat tosses the controller aside with disgust.
Nick retrieves it and grins. âSo much for waxing my ass, pendejo ,â he says, with an emphasis on the slang. God, what a dick.
A handful of popcorn kernels fall from Matâs lap when he stands. He slaps Nick on the back. âYou win this time, pajero .â
I cup my hand over my mouth. âDid you just call him a masturbator?â
Nick freezes, looks back, and scowls. âUp yours, bro.â
The two launch into a friendly push and shove war, punctuated by insults and laughter. I deflect a pang of jealousy with the acceptance that Iâll probably never fit in with these guys. Clearly Iâm not gaining any mileage with Nick. Not that it should matter.
Chelsea comes closer. âEmma fall asleep okay?â
âZonked as soon as her head hit the pillow.â
âRoger went all out on that room,â she says.
Thereâs a wink in her voice but I donât like the implication. Emmaâs
Caitlin Crews, Trish Morey