Chapter 32: Drinks
The guest bedroom they claimed was minimalist and cold, all white linen and chrome, overlooking the churning slate-grey Pacific far below. Joe dropped their bags unceremoniously.
“Fortress of solitude,” he said, glancing around. “You okay?”
Svet stood in the middle of the room, wringing her hands, a habit she thought she’d broken. The drone of the bass from downstairs vibrated through the floor. “I feel like I’m preparing for battle. Which is insane. It’s a party.”
“It’s not insane.” He walked to her, his bulk blocking out the sharp view of the ocean. He didn’t hug her, just rested his hands on her shoulders, his thumbs pressing into the knots of tension there. “We don’t have to stay down there long. We can say you have a headache. We can walk on the beach.”
She looked up at him, at the earnest concern in his big brown eyes. This man, who could literally break someone in half, was offering her a quiet escape. A lie. “No,” she said, the word surprising her. “No, I’m not letting her run me off. I’m here with you. I want to be here with you.”
A slow smile spread across his face. It was a rare, full smile that crinkled the corners of his eyes. “Okay then. Let’s go be social. For a bit.”
Back downstairs, the party had coagulated into distinct clusters. Joe was immediately absorbed into a group of guys near the sprawling sectional sofa—Edwin and Diego, plus a couple of bulky guys Svet recognized from the Chargers' practice squad. They greeted him with backslaps and a cold beer thrust into his hand. He took it, sinking into the cushions, but his gaze immediately tracked her.
Svet, meanwhile, was captured by Alexa’s orbit. Her best friend was radiant in a neon pink bikini top and high-waisted shorts, a glittery cup in hand. “There you are! I was about to send a search party. Drink. Now.” She pushed a cold, sugary shot into Svet’s hand. It smelled like synthetic melon and regret.
Across the open-plan space, through the archway to the dining area, Emily watched. She lifted her own drink in a tiny, ironic salute.
“Bottoms up, baby!” Alexa chirped.
Svet threw it back. The liquor burned a sweet, painful path down her throat. She shuddered. “God, what is that?”
“Who cares? It’s green!” Alexa laughed, already refilling the little cup from a large, murky pitcher. “C’mon, the girls are over here.”
The “girls” were a fluctuating ring of Bridget’s friends, perched on barstools and the edge of a long marble table. Svet was placed in the center, a new shot appearing in front of her every time she finished the last. The conversations were a blur of high-pitched gossip about people she didn’t know, critiques of other people’s outfits, and loud, performative laughter. Emily held court, her stories perfectly crafted, her delivery flawless. She included Svet just enough to be polite, asking pointed questions about her major, her “cute little apartment,” her job at the campus library—all framed to highlight how quaint and simple Svet’s life was compared to the glamorous uncertainty of her own modeling “gigs.”
Svet felt the alcohol first as a warmth in her cheeks, then as a loosening in her joints. The sharp edges of her anxiety began to blur. The fourth shot—something red and syrupy—didn’t burn as much. She laughed at something stupid Alexa said, a real laugh that felt good in her chest.
Through the archway, she could see Joe. He was talking to Edwin, nodding, but his eyes were on her. Not possessive, not anxious. Just present. Watching. She saw him note the empty shot glass in her hand, the way she swayed just a fraction when she stood up. He didn’t frown. He just took a slow sip of his beer, his gaze unwavering. A lifeline.
“Okay, this conversation is turning tragic,” Svet announced to the table, her voice louder than she intended. The buzz in her ears made everything sound distant. “We’re migrating. Music’s better in the living room.”
She led the charge, a tipsy general, trailing a giggling contingent of girls behind her. The living room was darker, the music richer here, thumping through the floor. The guys on the sofa looked up as the estrogen tsunami hit.
Svet didn’t hesitate. She walked right up to the sofa where Joe sat. Edwin, sensing the shift, slid over with a grin. Svet turned and simply lowered herself, not onto the cushion, but directly onto Joe’s lap, her back against his solid chest. She settled herself, wiggling slightly to get comfortable, feeling the hard planes of his thighs beneath her, the steady drum of his heart against her spine.
A few of the girls giggled. Diego whistled softly. From the archway, Emily’s smile looked fixed, like something carved in ice.
Joe’s arms came around her naturally, one hand splayed low on her stomach, anchoring her, the other resting on his own thigh, his beer still in hand. He dipped his head, his lips close to her ear. His breath was warm. “Hey you.”
She leaned back into him, tilting her head to look up at his inverted face. “Hey yourself.” Her words were slightly slurry, softened at the edges. “You just gonna sit here all night?”
“I’m exactly where I want to be,” he murmured, so only she could hear. The hand on her stomach gave a slight, reassuring squeeze.
The conversation swelled around them again, the groups merging. Alexa plopped down next to Edwin, launching into a story. But Svet barely heard it. She was hyper-aware of the weight of herself on him, of the idle circles his thumb was drawing through the fabric of her dress. She reached up a hand and brushed it along his stubbled jaw. He turned his face into her touch, his eyes closing for a second.
It was a claim, staked not with words but with sheer, unapologetic physicality. She was on his lap, in his space, and he was holding her as if she were something precious and essential. Every person in that room, especially the one watching with cool blue eyes from the doorway, could see it.
The alcohol hummed in Svet’s veins, a bold, fuzzy courage. The old insecurities were still there, murmuring in the back of her skull, but they were muffled, drowned out by the solid reality of the man wrapped around her. She had walked into the haunted house. And she had brought her own light.
She let her head fall back against his shoulder, her eyes drifting shut for a moment, listening to the party swirl around them. She was in the spotlight she’d always feared, but she wasn’t alone on stage. He was the set, the backdrop, and the only audience that mattered. For now, it was enough.