The last song ends abruptly, the vocals and lead guitar cutting out. My eyes whip over to see Dylan standing there like he’s seen a ghost. He shrugs his guitar off and jumps down from the stage, prowling toward something. Or someone.
“Thanks for coming out,” I hear Hunter’s voice boom over the speaker. “We’re The Liars. Follow us on the Gram for more shows. Now let’s get fucked up!”
The audience breaks out into cheers, then the DJ starts playing “Sweet but Psycho”. Everyone goes back to dancing and drinking, Dylan’s little scene all but forgotten.
I watch as he shoulders through the crowd to a girl I’ve never seen in my life. Her eyes widen when she notices him, and I see her mouth Dylan right before he drops a shoulder, lifting her up fireman style. She slaps and kicks, but he doesn’t so much as flinch as he carries her toward the exit.
What the fuck?
“Hang on,” I tell Jess and Halston, then I’m making my way over to the front of the stage. Hunter spots me, coming to squat down close enough to hear me.
“What the hell was that?” I ask. Hunter shakes his head, lifting his palms with a shrug. “Who was that?”
“You know Romeo and Juliet?”
I nod. “Obviously.”
“That would be Dylan’s equivalent of Juliet.”
My mouth falls open. I couldn’t be more shocked if he slapped me in the face. Dylan has never mentioned a girl. I was always under the impression that he left the Eastern Shore to get away from his family, but now I’m wondering if this girl isn’t an integral piece of the puzzle.
It’s almost closing time, and The Lamppost is still jam-packed with people showing no signs of slowing down. I yawn, in some strange state of sleepy happiness, while Jess, Sully, and Halston have a heated debate over something I stopped listening to a long time ago. Other than Dylan bailing mid-song, the night went off without a hitch, and everything feels…right. For once.
I spot Victor by the bar and he waves me over. Anxious to see what he thinks about tonight, I tell Jess I’ll be right back before slipping away.
“You did it, kid. I’m impressed,” Victor says with a smile.
I can’t help but beam at him, giddy with how tonight turned out. “Thanks for giving me a shot.”
“Of course. Can I pull you away for a celebratory drink?”
My eyebrows jump to my hairline. I look back toward my friends, hesitating.
“It’ll be quick. Can’t exactly have you drinking out here since you’re underage and everyone knows it. It’ll give us a quiet place to talk about what’s next for you.”
Right. “Okay. One drink.”
I follow him away through the mob of people, down the hall, and into a back room. He closes the door behind us, and a sense of unease settles over me, even though rationally, I know it makes sense. We can’t exactly have a conversation over the noise of the club.
The room consists of a desk, a black leather couch, and not much else.
“Have a seat,” he says, motioning toward the couch.
I glance back at the door, seeing people walking back and forth through the square window, deeming it safe before I sit on the cold leather, smoothing my dress down my thighs. He ambles toward the desk where a bottle of champagne in a bucket of ice and two glasses are waiting. Grabbing a white washcloth, he wipes off the bottle, then turns toward me.
“How do you feel about this becoming a permanent thing?” he asks, and when he pops the cork, I flinch, feeling both on edge and thrilled at the prospect of doing this on a regular basis.
“Really?” I ask as he hands me a glass. I take a tiny sip, the bubbly liquid warming my throat on the way down.
“Why not?” He gives a shrug, turning back for the desk. “You managed to triple what I made the first night. It’s a no-brainer.” He takes a seat behind the desk, pulling several things out of the drawer. I can’t tell for sure, but I think one of them is an envelope. He opens it up, then he’s waving a stack of cash at me. “Your cut,” he explains, holding it out for me.
My eyes bulge out of my skull. I wasn’t expecting to walk away with money. Standing, I make my way toward him and he hands me the fat stack. “Thank you,” I say, trying to casually flip through it. I don’t want to count it in front of him, but there has to be at least a thousand bucks here.
When I peel my eyes from the money, I see him bending over a piece of glass, a rolled-up dollar bill to his nose as he sniffs, sliding it along two rows of white powder.
“You earned it,” he says, wiping the excess powder from under his nose. “You want a line?”
“I’m good,” I say, forci