Chapter 11
ELEVEN
RAELYNN
Friday came fast, and I was grateful, and then I wasn’t.
Despite my protests, I’d been roped into going out for drinks with the girls.
Khloe had made it her personal mission to drag me out of the apartment, despite every excuse I threw her way.
Something about “needing to let loose, get the fuck out of the house, and maybe find some dick.” Her words, not mine.
I’d reluctantly agreed (to the drinks, at least). The dick part? Absolutely not. No matter how hot he was. No matter how horny I was. I wasn’t about to hook up with some random dude from a themed karaoke night at the Monkey Bar. Hawaiian luau, no less.
So now, here I am, a quarter after 9 p.m., standing in front of my vanity, adjusting the one dress I own that matches the theme.
It is a strappy halter that ties around my neck, featuring a white base with pink and yellow hibiscus flowers scattered across the fabric.
It barely reaches mid-thigh; the end of the fabric barely covers the tattoo that follows the curves of my left hip, which I got a month before the semester started.
I knew damn well one wrong bend and someone was getting a full view of my ass, the tattoo, and the sheer white lace panties I impulsively bought during a Victoria’s Secret sale a few weeks ago.
And because I didn’t own a strapless bra, I opted to skip it altogether. I’m not about to ruin the neckline with ugly straps.
I keep my hair simple, with a loose braid and a matching flower clip, and apply just enough makeup to conceal the exhaustion under my eyes.
A layer of foundation to cover the bruised-looking shadows, a sweep of soft pink eyeshadow, and a matching lipstick to bring it together.
I complete my outfit with a pair of white three-inch wedges, which makes me slightly regret every life decision I have made that led to this moment.
Satisfied (enough), I grab my bag and throw it over my shoulder, then step out of my room and knock once on Tessa’s door before cracking it open. Khloe is already inside, perched on the edge of the bed, looking like a walking Pinterest board.
“Well, hello, gorgeous.” She whistles as she stands up, revealing her outfit: a pink crocheted crop top with oversized bell sleeves thrown over a blue bikini top, paired with frayed black shorts and pink flip-flops.
Her hair falls in effortless beach waves, partially clipped back with a rose gold butterfly.
Tessa, never one to be outdone, wears a dangerously low-cut romper printed with tropical leaves.
The long sleeves give it a boho vibe, but the deep neckline makes it very clear that one wrong move would result in her breasts making an appearance for everyone to see.
Her hair is twisted into a bun, secured with her signature paintbrush stabbed straight through the middle like a dagger.
Both girls opted for light makeup as their effortless beauty doesn’t require much.
“I still hate you for making me go to this,” I tell Khloe as Tessa slides into a pair of black sandals.
“You’ll get over it after your first drink.” Tessa teases as she walks over and throws her arms around me. She kisses my cheek with a grin. “I do have to agree with Khloe, though,” she says as she pulls away. “You look gorgeous, babe.”
I smirk, the tension easing a bit from my shoulders. “So do both of you.”
Before we can say anything else, a knock at the front door echoes down the hallway, which sends Max into a barking fit. His nails click against the floor as he barrels toward the entryway—tail wagging like crazy, his fox toy clamped proudly between his teeth.
“It’s open!” I call out, raising my voice just enough to carry down the hallway.
The door swings open a second later, and Marlena practically bounces inside, fingers laced tightly with Austin’s.
She’s fully committed to the Hawaiian theme, as expected—wrapped in a strapless sundress splashed with leafy greens and blush pink florals.
Her hair is curled and pinned into two playful space buns at the crown of her head, the rest spilling in glossy waves down her back.
White wedges tap cheerfully against the tile as she makes a beeline straight for me—though Max intercepts her first, trotting right up with his squeaky fox held high like an offering.
“Oh my god, hey, Max!” Marlena coos, crouching just enough to ruffle his ears. Austin chuckles and scratches under his chin, earning a happy little squeak from the toy before Max trots over to the couch and curls up on it, his toy tucked under his snout.
Giggling, Marlena rises on her toes, the soft blend of honeysuckle and citrus in her perfume wrapping around me like a warm breeze as she presses a kiss to my cheek.
The wedges give her just enough height to reach me without too much of a struggle, which says a lot, because Marlena is fucking tiny. Like, 4'11" tiny.
And I’m not exactly towering myself. I stand at a very average 5'4", while Tessa—blessed with long legs and effortless model energy—clocks in around 5'8" and Khloe at 5'6".
“God, Rae, you look hot as hell,” Marlena says with a grin, giving my outfit a quick once-over.
I arch a brow, smirking. “What do I look like the rest of the time? A damn hobo?”
She laughs as she rejoins Austin’s side, his arm already sliding around her waist. “Nooooo, babe. You just never dress up. We’re all a little shook right now.”
“I know,” I say, chuckling. “I’m just giving you shit.”
Austin wraps an arm around Marlena’s waist, tugging her closer like he can’t help himself, and gives us all a once-over. “Y’all ready to go?” he asks, keys in hand.
“Yep!” Khloe answers without hesitation, grabbing Tessa and me by the arms like we might change our minds. “Let’s roll, sluts.”
Austin, ever the hero, had graciously agreed to be our designated driver for the night, which meant no overpriced Uber or awkward small talk.
Marlena tried to convince him to come with us, but he wasn’t having it.
Said this was girls-only territory, and he meant it.
He just told her to call him whenever we were ready to leave, no matter what time it was.
We pile into his silver Chevy Equinox, Marlena riding shotgun while the three of us cram into the back.
The moment the doors shut, Khloe cues up a playlist loud enough to shake the windows, and chaos erupts.
Off-key singing. Laughter that borders on obnoxious.
Tessa is yelling at Marlena for skipping her favorite part of the song.
It’s the kind of car ride that feels like a pregame all on its own.
Austin misses the bar twice, swearing under his breath that the Monkey Bar’s entrance is practically invisible.
To be fair, the place is tucked next to a rundown convenience store on the corner of Wilmot and 22nd.
If it weren’t for the neon beer bottle sign protruding from the wall, he’d probably still be looking.
Finally, he swings into the lot beside a greasy Filiberto’s and pulls into a spot.
The four of us climb out, shoes clicking and laughter trailing after us as we straighten out our outfits and fluff our hair.
From here, we can already hear the unmistakable sound of someone absolutely butchering a Celine Dion song inside the bar.
Austin leans out the driver’s side window, eyes scanning us one last time. “I don’t care what time it is—just call when you’re ready to bounce, and I’ll come get y’all. Got it?”
“We will! I love you!” Marlena sings as she blows him a kiss and skips toward the entrance.
I glance toward the bar’s glowing sign, take a breath, and follow the girls inside.
Inside, chaos is already in full swing.
A guy on the other side of the bar, where the karaoke is being held, is absolutely butchering a Slipknot song, the mic in his hand swaying like he’s fronting a stadium tour.
His voice is off-key, but the crowd doesn’t care.
A few people cheer him on while others throw back shots and laugh into their cocktails.
Khloe and Tessa immediately drift toward the singing area, heads bent over their phones as they scroll through the Karafun website, whispering excitedly about what song to queue up. Marlena trails behind them, already dancing to the beat.
Me? I head for the bar. If there’s even a chance I’m singing tonight, I’m going to need a few drinks first. My sober stage presence is nonexistent. Zero confidence. Negative charisma. I’d rather be tipsy and shameless than clear-headed and dying of secondhand embarrassment.
I squeeze into a narrow opening between two guys dressed in matching dingy gray shirts and tan cargo pants.
One is shouting hoarsely at the flat-screen mounted above us—some baseball game I can’t pretend to care about.
He’s waving his beer bottle like it’s a magic wand that might make the batter hit better.
The other guy doesn’t even glance at me; he’s too busy nursing a double whiskey, staring into the glass like it holds the meaning of life.
Neither pays me any mind, which is just how I like it.
The bartender—Cole, according to the crooked name tag pinned to the chaos of orange and blue hibiscus print on his half-unbuttoned Hawaiian shirt—glances my way and grins over his shoulder.
His whole look is peak tropical dive bar: thick, black-rimmed glasses perched on a tan, round face, a light dusting of stubble that softens his jawline, and blonde hair slicked back with an absurd level of commitment, like he’s moonlighting as a surf rock frontman.
The shirt is offensively loud, something you’d expect to find buried in the clearance bin of a beachfront souvenir shop—and yet, somehow, it works on him. He radiates effortless charm, and his whole demeanor exudes a laid-back, flirtatious quality.