Expanded Universe (The Last Picks #13)

Chapter 1

Engineered Public Confession

This story is set before Mystery Magnet.

For the record, I hadn’t wanted a birthday party.

Arm wrapped around me, he kissed my cheek and shouted, “This is amazing, right?”

Rum on his breath. And the shouting wasn’t doing anything for my headache. I smiled some more and nodded and checked the clock. At eleven, the police would enforce the noise ordinance, but people wouldn’t start going home until—two? three?

“I love you!” Hugo shouted.

Before I had to respond, Hugo kissed me again—this time, his tongue finding its way into my mouth.

A drunken cheer went up through the crowd.

The taste of rum and Coke was overpowering, and the kiss went on and on, and I could feel every eye in the room on me.

(Or it felt like it anyway.) That sensation of being the center of attention was like a noose, and it tightened until I finally had to press a hand to Hugo’s chest. He gave ground grudgingly, and when the kiss finally broke, he had a boyish expression that somehow mixed guilt and glee.

Then he whooped and staggered, and he would have fallen if Brody—his best bro—hadn’t caught him.

“I need a drink,” I said.

Hugo was laughing at something Brody had said.

“I need a drink!”

After a bleary look, Hugo grinned and nodded. “Totally.” Then he went back to talking to Brody.

I waited for a few more seconds, and then I turned and pushed into the crowd. Hugo had set up the drinks in the kitchen, but when I got there, I found a guy I didn’t recognize presiding over the makeshift bar.

“Mixology is all about sensation,” he was telling a girl.

He had terrible facial hair, and the girl looked like she’d skinned a sofa set to make her dress for the evening.

He was leaning in as he talked, but his eyes were so red I thought it might not be leaning; it might be more of an incredibly slow fall.

“It’s all about knowing what makes people feel good.

That’s, like, my passion, you know. Knowing how to make people feel good. ”

The girl in the sofa-set dress giggled and said something that the music swallowed.

I looked at the collection of bottles, trying to find something I’d like.

Then, considering my limited options, I decided I’d settle for something I could tolerate.

I tried to figure out how it was possible for Hugo to have spent so much money on booze (which I knew because we shared a credit card, because according to Hugo, that’s what committed couples did), and somehow all we had was enough Mike’s Hard Lemonade for a dorm full of freshman boys, and a ridiculous number of cans of something called Joose, which I’d never heard of and certainly wasn’t going to try (“premium flavored malt beverage,” no thank you).

“Excuse me,” I said.

“That’s probably why I’ll never own my own bar,” the guy with the terrible facial hair was explaining. “Because, like, capitalism and stuff. Plus my mom would kill me if I owned a bar.”

“Hey!”

He turned to me and blinked.

“I thought Hugo got some gin. Or some whiskey. I know he bought rum.”

“Huh?”

I fought a scream.

“Who’s Hugo?” he asked.

“You have got to be—” I managed to stop myself. “Who are you? Why are you even here?”

“It’s a party,” he said as though that explained everything. Then, to the girl wearing the sofa set, “Some guys just don’t know how to chill.”

Maybe it wasn’t a headache, I thought. Maybe it was an aneurysm.

I had to minnow my way between bodies until I reached our bedroom. When I opened the door, a couple of guys I didn’t know were making out on our bed.

“Bro!” one of them shouted. He was, of course, wearing a Red Sox cap backwards.

“Get out of my room!”

With some grumbling (and pulling up their pants), the guys stumbled out. Red Sox kept giving me death glares. I hadn’t seen either of them before. Maybe Hugo had issued an open invitation to everyone in Providence.

I shut the door and lay on the bed, but the music continued to pound, and even here, in our room, I felt like there were bodies pressed up against me.

Finally, I opened the window and stepped out onto the little Juliet balcony.

Stepped out was a loose term. It was more like crouching on the sill, my feet squeezed onto the narrow platform.

The air was cold and smelled like the dumpster and the alley and snow that probably wouldn’t fall.

I didn’t hear Hugo until he was settling onto the sill next to me. Rum. Rummy breath warm on the side of my face.

“You’re missing your party,” he murmured, one arm sliding around my waist.

My party, I thought.

“Are you having a good time?”

His head settled onto my shoulder, and it made me think of that expression on his face earlier. Sometimes, in some ways, he was still such a kid. The question, with its earnestness, was just another example.

“I’m having a great time,” I whispered as I stroked his hair. “Thank you for throwing me a party.”