Enemies in Paradise

PROLOGUE

This is the last time.

I promise you, with absolute certainty, that this is the last time I let myself fall into Mila’s traps and end up at some sketchy party with yet another frat boy.

Where does she even meet these clowns?

And, more importantly, what kind of guy invites a girl to a total stranger’s birthday party on a first date?

We’re in some shady bar in the middle of Harlem, surrounded by balloons and a giant banner that says: Happy 21st Birthday, Tony! Who the hell is Tony? And why the hell am I at his birthday party with a bunch of people I don’t know?

Well, the answer to all these questions will have to wait, because I honestly have no idea.

All I can say is that Tony is a short guy with wavy dark hair and big brown eyes.

Rob, on the other hand, looks six inches taller than him, copper red hair, shaved on the sides but with large loose waves on top, contrasting with the intense green of his eyes.

He’s actually kind of handsome and is majoring in economics, so he must be at least a bit smart.

Not only that, but he’s majoring in economics at Columbia University, which means the guy has lots of money and a promising future.

But everyone seems to call him Robbie, and no man over the age of eight should ever be called that.

Plus, let’s not even get started on the fact that he didn’t bother taking my friend out on an actual date or paying for dinner, considering the beer here is free and the only food available are peanuts you have to scoop out of an old barrel with a ladle and put them into plastic bowls.

Since I came straight from campus and haven’t eaten a thing, that’s exactly what I’m doing: filling a bowl with peanuts and drinking warm beer while Tony is singing — singing?

no, screaming — I’m Too Sexy on the karaoke, and his friends shout words of encouragement like, “Tony is the best! Fuck all the rest!”

Meanwhile, Mila and Rob are making out like teenagers against the wall.

If all that is already too much to process, I don’t even know what to say about the guy in a black hoodie and messy hair sitting by the bar, holding an iPad in one hand and an empty glass in the other, completely oblivious to everything happening around us.

He bangs the glass on the counter like a caveman, signaling the bartender for another drink.

Does this idiot not know how to speak?

And what exactly is he doing?

Studying? In a bar? In the middle of a party?

Either that, or the guy is using the free Wi-Fi to hack some top-secret system and defuse a bomb set to explode in a New York subway station somewhere. Or, judging by his face, maybe he’s the one causing the explosion, I truly don’t know.

I’m Too Sexy ends, and four guys climb onto the stage as the first chords of Livin’ la Vida Loca start playing. One of them chugs all the beer in his cup and burps into the microphone.

Yeah, you don’t need to be a genius to see this whole thing with Rob won’t last long. Mila once broke up with a guy because he used to wear below-the-knee socks like a German tourist. I’m pretty sure the greasy bar floor sticking to her Gucci flats will get to her a lot faster than that.

She can say all she wants about being “just like the rest of us”, but, when reality hits, Mila runs straight back to her comfort zone, and everything else is just a crazy adventure she likes to talk about at parties.

It was the same with college. When she got into Columbia, she insisted on living in the dorms because she wanted the full college experience, but to this day all her clothes are still taken to some fancy dry cleaner, and I’ve lost count of how many times I’ve caught her calling the Carnegies’ private chef just to ask him to prepare some truffles and caviar, then have him send it over straight from the family’s townhouse in the Upper East Side.

Well, unlike Mila, I don’t have a private chef, I don’t own Gucci shoes, and I only get to study at Columbia because I was blessed with a scholarship and a part-time campus job that helps me cover my bills.

So believe me, a night out when I don’t have to pay for dinner — even if, by dinner, I mean beer and peanuts — already counts as a win.

Whether I have to deal with Robbie’s stupid friends or not.

The bartender comes back with a bottle of Jack Daniels, which means this isn’t the first drink for Mr. Mute beside me. He fills the glass halfway before adding a slice of lemon and two ice cubes. Rob’s friend pulls out his wallet and flashes a card in the bartender’s face without even looking up.

Maybe he is mute. Maybe the iPad is the only way he communicates with the world. Maybe he’s actually insane.

“What?” I hear the word in a deep, rough voice.

I am honestly not surprised. The voice fits perfectly with the way he looks.

Dark hair, falling over dark eyes that are shaped like almonds and are currently narrowed under thick dark brows, judging me completely.

I’m so lost in my own thoughts that it takes me three full seconds to realize he’s talking to me. But hey, at least he’s communicating verbally now instead of acting like some angry ape.

There’s no point in pretending I wasn’t staring, so I just ask, “You’re studying in a bar?”

His eyes widen a bit, his brows lift. He then sizes me up, his gaze stopping on my cleavage for two whole seconds before he licks his lips and says, as calmly as possible, “I’m reviewing my plays.”

“Your plays?” I frown, confused.

“My plays,” he confirms. “I’m the quarterback for the New York Jets.”

Jesus. I hate him already. For a million different reasons.

“Really? Because I thought the Jets’ quarterback was Jason Carter.”

“I’m the backup,” he corrects immediately.

I can’t read what’s on the iPad screen, but I’m sure it’s not football plays. It’s just a massive block of tiny text. And come on! Athletes are energetic, restless people. No way they’d spend this long looking at a static screen full of words without losing their minds.

But, since this guy is obviously an idiot who’s obviously trying to score, I continue my mission to destroy his lie and crush him down to the sticky floor where a jerk like him belongs.

“And I also thought the Jets’ backup quarterback was Fred Turner,” I fire back instantly.

The smug grin disappears.

“Did I say Jets?” he asks, surprised. “I meant Giants.”

“You don’t know the name of your own team?”

“It happens sometimes after a concussion.”

“Jacob Agassi is the Giants’ quarterback,” I shoot back. “And I know the names of all the other players too, because I’m majoring in sports journalism. So if you’re trying to impress me with some lie, maybe pick a topic that’s not football.”

The caveman jerk looks at me without a shred of shame or even any real emotion.

Seriously, the guy just takes a sip of the drink the bartender made and says, bored as hell, “I wasn’t trying to impress you.

I just didn’t have the energy to explain what I’m actually studying to yet another half-naked drunk Robbie usually brings to parties. ”

It’s my turn to look down at my own cleavage.

Okay, maybe I’ve had more beers than socially acceptable for a Tuesday night in the middle of the academic year. And okay, maybe my dress could be an inch longer, but that’s none of his business.

“Why? Because all women are dumb and you’re the god of wisdom?” I snap.

Once again, he looks at me with that bored-to-death expression, the only sign of annoyance being that he has to talk to me instead of, I don’t know, burying his face in the tiny words on his iPad once again.

“What’s a rule against perpetuity?” he tests me.

“Words that only come out of a complete idiot’s mouth?” I suggest, instantly.

“Exactly what I thought,” he says, confirming his theory that he knows everything and I know nothing. Just because I drank five beers, like tight dresses, and have a vagina. Then adds, “You’re Camila’s roommate, I guess.”

“Julie,” I say firmly.

Hoping he’ll realize I am a human being after all.

“And you’re one of Robbie’s snobbish friends who think they’re better than everyone,” I conclude as well.

“I’m sitting in a shitty bar that hasn’t seen a mop in years, getting my eardrums blown out by a bunch of drunks singing karaoke, while trying to study for the most important exam of my life because Tony started crying when I told him adults don’t throw birthday parties.

Clearly I’m not better than anyone, Julia. ”

“It’s Julie,” I correct.

Not that I expect it to make any difference. Maybe ten percent of him is actually paying attention to me. The rest is probably focused on himself.

Then even that ten percent shifts toward the other end of the bar the moment Mila bursts into laughter and Robbie spins her around the dance floor.

He glances at them and, as if reading my mind, says, with a profound conviction, while lifting his glass for a long, long sip, “If it’s any consolation, this won’t last long.”