1. Chapter One #3
“Don’t mind him.” Javi wraps his arm around my waist. “Eres muy hermosa. You know how he gets around certain people.” He smirks, cutting his gaze from me to Layla.
Her sharp eyes warn us to cease any discussion about Connor’s borderline obsession with her. And now that I have my psych degree, I’m actually sort of qualified to comment on this.
The music inside the club is deafeningly loud.
Multicolored lights shift in hue and direction, synchronizing seamlessly with the upbeat remix of Elle Goulding’s “Lights.” We navigate carefully through the dancing crowd, our hands intertwined—Layla’s, Javi’s, and mine—forming a united line to avoid losing each other.
Ahead, Connor’s tall frame leads us toward the VIP area.
I’m not surprised when the bouncer lets us in after shaking Connor’s hand.
As we ascend the stairs, we’re greeted by a spacious room.
The atmosphere is noticeably quieter here, with expansive windows instead of solid walls enclosing the space, offering a view of the bustling dance floor below.
Circular booths are scattered across the room, some partially occupied.
Connor abruptly stops beside one marked with a “Reserved” sign on the table.
“Go ahead,” Connor says, pointing toward the booth. “Javi and I will get drinks.”
“I’d like Rum and Ginger Ale,” I say as I scoot inside, glad I wore jeans instead of a skirt.
“Dark and Stormy,” Layla and Connor say in unison.
“I know,” he says in a low voice, staring into her eyes.
I’m not sure how her clothes are still on her. It’s one of those stares that could undress her with its intensity, and I gain a new admiration for Layla’s strength in resisting Connor’s magnetism. I don’t understand why she doesn’t just climb this man like he’s a jungle gym.
“Okay. That was cute. He knows your drink order!” I gently slap Layla’s shoulder once the guys are out of earshot.
Layla tosses her long auburn hair back. “Oh, fantastic. Shall I just drop to my knees now that he’s grasped the basic concept of my standard order, something any half-decent friend should know?” she quips.
“I still can’t believe you dated him,” I tease.
“Fucked,” she clarifies, “and it was one time. One very drunken time.” Layla pulls out her phone. “After a horrible shift at Dancing Monk, and a bucket of tequila.” She stares in Connor’s direction, but I’m not sure if it’s disinterest that I’m seeing.
“Are you going back there?” I ask. Layla was a server for a few months at Dancing Monk, a local bar, until she abruptly quit.
“God no. The money was decent, but not enough. Also, Dave was a real creep, and I got tired of dealing with him.” She uses her phone’s camera to check on her makeup. Her dark, catlike eyeliner accentuates the subtle tapering at the edges of her eyes.
“Did you end up finding a new job?” I ask as I unlock my phone.
“Oh. They’re back,” she says, avoiding my question when the guys approach.
“Tell me he doesn’t look like some Russian mafioso,” Connor remarks, showing a photo to Javi on his phone.
I only half pay attention when I glance up at Connor’s screen. All I notice are sharp gray eyes and a strong jaw before I drag my finger down to refresh my email one more time.
“Who’s that?” Javi asks.
“Sergei Chernov, the guy I told you about, the one opening a new hotel on the Strip,” Connor responds, tilting the phone toward Layla.
“Oh, the one you couldn’t get on the VIP waitlist?” Javi taunts.
I look back at my phone. The “Checking for Mail…” message lags, and when it finally disappears, a new email pops up, titled “Internship Placement.”
Okay, breathe.
Even if I didn’t get my first choice of placement, I’ll be okay. I can finish my internship and apply to work somewhere else. And who knows, maybe I’ll like the other school better than the one where I did my practicum? There are kids who need my help regardless of the school.
My finger rushes to open the email, and I almost drop my phone.
My gaze darts across the screen as I read the words: “We regret to inform you—” Wait.
What? “We regret to inform you that you have not been selected for an internship for the next academic year.” I skim the rest of the email, increasing the brightness on the screen, as if that will make the words spell something else.
I wasn’t selected.
I don’t have an internship for next year.
My pulse speeds up as panic spreads through my body.
Without the internship, I won’t be able to work the hours needed to get licensed.
My stomach churns as a heavy knot settles in my throat.
Without a license, I can’t practice as a school psychologist. And everything I worked for—the countless hours studying, the years of schooling, the egregious student debt—was all for nothing.
Because if I can’t be a school psychologist, I can’t help kids. And if I can’t help kids, what am I supposed to do?
We regret to inform you…
A familiar feeling overwhelms my senses, one that’s been with me like an imaginary best friend for as long as I can remember—a feeling that casts a shadow over everything I desire.
Because I wasn’t chosen.
Again.