Writer's note:
A shorter chapter. We're getting pretty close to the end of the story.
"Hurry up," Tasha scolds me.
She's the one who told me to 'slut it up.' I'd love to see her try to haul ass in four-inch heels without snapping an ankle. She picked flats, of course. The hypocrite.
"It's my birthday, you don't get to talk to me like that," I whine.
It's not very effective. She doesn't slow down.
A gust of wind passes right through my coat, and I hunch lower, cursing my little black dress for doing absolutely nothing to protect my legs. Late March can suck a dick.
Downtown's buzzing. Couples, college kids, the first traces of nightlife starting to spark. The streetlights are already blinking on.
And yeah, I'm obviously getting ambushed tonight. The surprise party isn't exactly subtle. Roman's been dodging me all day long. The man cannot keep a secret to save his life.
I almost bump into Tasha when she stops in front of a bar.
"We're not getting in," I groan.
We've already suffered enough rejection from bouncers to last me a lifetime. It's always fun when the European students in our class find out about 'underage drinking.'
"Watch how the pros do it," my roommate says with a smug grin.
I follow her inside, and the burly dude manning the door lets us through with a wink. What the fuck?
The place is covered in old punk rock posters. But the few patrons huddled around the barrel tables look like they'd fit just right in some tech company's HR department.
Tasha waves to the goth barmaid, who beams back the fakest smile ever, then goes right back to shaking a drink.
"Come on," Tasha pulls on my hand, tearing me from my momentary lapse.
We head up a narrow set of stairs. I can already hear somebody whispering for everyone to shut up. I bite down a grin, straighten my face, and brace for impact.
"HAPPY BIRTHDAY!"
"Oh my God!" I gasp, my hands fly to my mouth like I've just seen a ghost. Maybe overkill, but I'm a crowd-pleaser.
Tasha puts a cheap plastic tiara on top of my head. I'd feel like a five-year-old if it weren't for the amount of cleavage I have on display.
The room is packed. Every familiar campus face is crammed in here, and Roman stands stiffly dead center. I can already picture the pain on his face while trying to make small talk with sophomores about psych electives.
I give a quick wave to Jules and Trevor. Technically his friends, but they're growing on me. Plus, I'd never dream of depriving Roman of a night with his boyfriend. And Jules is loaded, so I can't wait to see just how outrageous her present is going to be.
Then I spot her.
Paige.
I squeal and fling myself at her. She staggers, but doesn't dodge. When she finally peels me off, there's a fat lipstick mark on her cheek and the faintest trace of a smile she's trying way too hard to hide.
"Surprise," she sings half-heartedly, waving her hands awkwardly.
"When did you get here?" I ask.
Are you still mad at me?
My eyes add silently.
"Just today. Roman picked me up from the airport. Wouldn't miss your twentieth." A pause. "Truce?"
I wrap her back into a hug and bury my nose into her black curls. I've missed her so much. She smells so safe.
"Enjoy tonight," she whispers. "Because tomorrow, you and Rom will have to work hard to make it up to me."
Before I can come up with something, I'm pulled into a dozen different conversations from people who want to get their slice of birthday girl. But an hour (and a fair amount of wriggling) later, I finally manage to get within Roman's reach.
"Hey, you," I can feel the familiar tug of the goofy smile on my lips. His fitted black shirt and grey pants perfectly match his darker features and affected laid-back attitude.
We share a very PG kiss, and still get a round of playful jeers for it.
"Having fun?" He asks.
"Still can't believe you managed to book us a bar," Tasha cuts in, unaware of her intrusion in our intimate moment.
Or maybe she knows she's interrupting and just doesn't give a shit. I've walked in on her in our dorm with enough random dudes to know we don't exactly share the same boundaries.
"Wait? This was you?" I blink, turning back to Roman.
"Helped, maybe," he mumbles.
"Help?" Tasha snorts as Roman blushes. "More like he set up the entire thing. I just slapped together a group chat and added people from school."
Someone is getting the sloppiest blowjob ever tonight.
"How'd you get a bar to agree to host a party for a bunch of college students?" I continue.
"It's nothing really," he says, brushing it off. "The bartender and I go way back."
Her tattoos and dyed black bangs don't feel so quirky anymore.
Way back?
That slut.
Luckily, the cake saves me from spiraling too far. Twenty feels like one of the last birthdays where people still bother with the exact number of candles. Obviously, I do a little show of blowing them out.
The following dozen minutes are basically me holding court with a beer in hand as people line up to hand me their presents. The plastic beads on the tiara really sell it.
As expected, Jules' draws the most envious looks from my girlfriends when I unwrap the ridiculously expensive moisturizer in a crystal jar. I resist the urge to obediently tilt my chin and let her apply it right then and there. I know she'd do it, but it would ruin my makeup.
And my panties, too.
The presents start to pile up on the dedicated table. Most of them will end up stored at Roman's place anyway. Paige is excused tonight, but she owes me something at the second birthday party our parents will undoubtedly throw next time we're both back home.
It's Tasha's turn. Inside the half-collapsed cardboard box is a fake driver's license. A hot twenty-four-year-old Maddie looks back at me from the photo.
"Fake ID?" I almost shriek. Tasha just nods, looking proud.
Roman lets out a loud snort. "What's the name, McLovin'?"
He sounds tipsy. I usually love Drunk Roman, but Tasha and I exchange a confused look. "Maklovin?"
"You guys are so lame," he mutters, shaking his head in defeat as he wanders off toward Trevor for moral support.
"So that's the plan for tonight," Tasha picks up the conversation. "We wrap things up in here, then take you clubbing."
Paige leans over to check out the ID, a tiny smile on her lips.
"You coming too?" I ask.
"Nah," she shrugs. "I had a long day, think I'll head back. You guys have fun."
I pout. Paige and Tasha together is always a guaranteed shitshow. The good kind. I'm about to guilt-trip her when Trevor ruins everything.
"We can give you a ride back to Rom's, Paige," he says. "And take all that too," he gestures toward the present pile. "No point dragging it around all night."
He flashes me a warm, helpful smile. Traitor.
"Let's get going then!" Tasha declares cheerfully.
She ignores the glare I give her and goes for a goodbye hug with Paige instead. Roman, standing behind me, wraps me in my coat and plants a soft kiss on the side of my neck. That, and a peck on the cheek from Jules, does a lot to lift my mood. I love Drunk Roman.
By the time we're back in the cold street, it's just Roman, Tasha, the gym bro from my media studies class, who she keeps trying to hook up with, and a few older students left.
"Do you guys know where we're going?" I ask, hoping someone has at least a concept of a plan.
Tasha starts to answer, but Roman cuts in.
"Oh my God, I know exactly where we should go. You guys are going to shit your pants."
He doesn't wait for us to agree and just takes off, unaware of the amused looks shared behind him. I bolt forward to grab his hand, my heels clacking on the pavement.
We keep bumping shoulders, and after a few dramatic sighs and the right amount of whining, he lets me climb onto his back for the rest of the walk.
When we reach an unassuming entrance, he gently lowers me back to the ground and untangles the forgotten plastic tiara from my hair.
"Ok, listen up, scramps," he half-shouts, half-whispers at the group, in the best display of drunken discretion possible. "Pair up, each guy with a girl. And try not to act too wasted. This isn't the students' union."
Even with how ironic his warning is, it's pretty effective. We climb the stairs in an orderly file, the muffled beats growing louder, to find a small door and a hulking bouncer.
I feel apprehensive when I pull out the fake ID. But the guy barely glances at it before waving me in. Miraculously, the entire group makes it.
A short trip to the coat check, and we finally enter the club, letting out a collective 'Whoa.'
I could easily imagine Renaissance Italian princes throwing orgies in here. The walls are covered in mirrors, frescoes, and statues that climb all the way to the high ceilings. The rooms are a little cramped, almost entirely free of furniture except for a few low tables and couches that probably cost more than Rom's rent.
Despite the lack of space, a small DJ booth has been set up next to an old hearth, and techno music is playing over the speaker system. A modern-looking bar also clashes with the rest of the decor.
