The Way Back Home (3 page)

“T
WENTY-ONE
!”
EVERYBODY AT
the blackjack table hollers.

“Bird, you're on fire!” Stella says next to me.

After dinner, we hit up Colton's gorgeous nightclub. He escorted us right to the VIP area, where we had an overhead view of the entire club and unlimited bottle service. We danced hard, took lots of pics with random people, and I let loose in a way that I don't think I ever have.

Now it is way past midnight, and we are hitting up the casinos, making our rounds through the games. With Colton by my side, it's like the whole resort is our playground: Nobody has carded us and nobody has asked me for an autograph. He has consistently led me to the calmest tables with the fewest tourists, and we've played roulette, been on the slot machines, and even shot craps. It's been so unbelievably nice to have a real night out, especially since I get to spend it with a hot guy who can relate to the insanity of living life in the public eye.

“Bird, after this, Hold'em?” Dylan asks, his eyes twinkling.

“Oh, good idea! We'll clean house.” We high-five, reminiscing about the many hours we spent playing poker growing up on the RV.

Dylan has really loosened up since dinner, partly because he's been a lucky gambler tonight and partly because the free beer keeps coming. As for Stella and me, we've discovered that while we don't care for beer or champagne, strawberry daiquiris are delicious. I can't even taste the alcohol. And they just keep coming, like magic.

I like that I've been able to impress Colton Holley. He has been right at my side, or like now, standing behind me with his hands on my shoulders, at every table. He whispers encouragement and continues to tell me what a “shrewd” gambler I am. He's five years older than me, but I feel like I'm holding my own, like the age difference doesn't matter.

“You are a timeless beauty, Miss Barrett,” Colton mumbles into the nape of my neck. Involuntarily, I lean into him. My body feels loose and alive all at once.

“You have to hit that,” I hear Dylan tell Stella.

“No, mate,
you
have to hit
that
,” a tipsy Colton jokes, nudging Dylan's upper arm. He laughs heartily at his own joke, but I cringe. Dylan shoots him a death stare.

“Colton, what time is it?” I ask, trying to diffuse the tension. The round continues as he pulls out his cell phone.

“Three.”

“Three in the morning?” I ask. That feels impossible, but as I look around the casino, I realize that there aren't any windows and that the vitality of this place, the constant high of winning—or determination to win back what's been lost—keeps people going.

“We should probably go upstairs,” I say. I stand up and stumble into him.

Colton wraps his arms around me and murmurs in my ear, “That sounds like a marvelous idea.”

I giggle. I meant my room, but he thinks I meant his room. That's funny. Why is that so funny?

“Bird, Hold'em?” Dylan asks. He and Stella have gathered their chips and are standing next to us now.

“I don't have to hold him,” I say slowly. I am fully in Colton's arms now and don't feel capable of standing on my own. “He's holding me!” I giggle again. Stella laughs, too. “Why is that so funny?” I ask her.

“I don't know,” she says, tears in her eyes. “But it's really funny.”

“Oh-kay,” Dylan says. “It's late. Let's get you girls back up to the suite.” Stella reaches over to the table for our drinks, but Dylan intercepts her, putting them on the tray of a passing waiter. “I think y'all have had enough tonight,” he says. He wraps his arm firmly around her waist and motions for us to follow him toward the elevators.

“This is why you should never party with your big brother,” I tell Colton.

“And why you definitely shouldn't after-party with him,” he says softly. His hand is rubbing circles on the bare skin at my neck. I feel tingly all over. “Plus, your best friend is going to want some alone time with her boyfriend.”

“They are
not
together,” I say.

He raises one eyebrow. “Yet.”

“Ugh, don't,” I say, worried that he's right. I've been watching them tonight, how effortless they are together and how strong and obvious the chemistry is.

“Which is why,” Colton continues, pulling me behind a slot machine, “you should come sober up with me.” He runs a hand over my shoulder and up my neck, then locks his fingers in the hair at the base of my head. And before I realize what's happening, Colton Holley is kissing me. He kisses me hard, pinning me against the slots so that I have to reach out to steady myself.

I have never been kissed like this, with this much urgency. With his body pressed up against mine, I feel like maybe my thoughts about romance have all been wrong. Colton Holley isn't a sweet boy from a country song, but he is sexy as hell, and rather than back off, I hold on tight, all in.

“Bird, let's go,” I hear Dylan say firmly. I open my eyes, but Colton doesn't stop kissing me. “Bird, now!”

“Listen, mate,” Colton sneers, pulling away with a stormy look on his face. “The girl is eighteen years old. She doesn't need her big brother telling her what to do.”

“Oh yeah,
mate
?” Dylan says, stepping up to him toe-to-toe. “She doesn't need a slimy player pawing all over her, either.”

Colton doesn't step down, but he does look amused when he faces me. “Bird, who's running this show? You or your roadies?”

“That's it,” Dylan says, pushing Colton with both hands so that his back slams against a slot machine.

“Dylan, stop!” I shout, stumbling in between them. “I'm going to date, okay? Get over it.”

He clenches his jaw, madder than I've ever seen him. “You're drunk,” he says quietly.

“I'm not drunk,” I reply thickly. My mouth feels so dry. “I mean, I'm not wasted or anything. I know what I'm doing. And it's my birthday, and I'll make out if I want to.”

Dylan turns around and runs his hands through his hair, on the verge of exploding.

A very smug Colton puts his arm around my waist and kisses me on the forehead. “Let's get out of here,” he mumbles.

I look at his handsome face and nod.

“Bird,” Stella interrupts softly. “I don't want to tell you what to do or anything, but some of these people could have cameras and…”

She trails off, gesturing to a couple eyeing us from the Wheel of Fortune Slots, and as tipsy as I am, I get her meaning: I am in public, therefore I am still on the clock. It's my night off, but in public I will always be Bird Barrett: Role Model. Everybody else on the planet can have a little fun once in a while, but not me. Oh no. And I don't know why, but suddenly I get mad. Really mad. At everybody. At everything.

“Fine!” I say, pushing Colton away. I wag my finger between my brother and my best friend. “You guys go ahead and be really happy and enjoy the vacation, oh, I mean,
tour
, and I'll just be alone for the rest of my life.”

I walk away fast, feel myself veering, feel the instability in my steps, and wonder if I actually am drunk. Drunk, like, bombed. I bump into a few people and finally make it to the elevators, but when I look through my purse for the VIP card, I'm so angry that I can't see straight. This place is spinning. When the others catch up, Dylan uses his own card to magically open up the portal to the upper floors and I march in, pulling off my high heels.

Ooooh, the cold floor feels good.
I grin. Why is that funny?

Colton stands next to me in the back, quiet but still determined. His hand slides up the underside of my arm and then down my spine, grazing the top of my butt.

“It's not gonna happen, Colton,” I say, annoyed.

I hear Stella laugh, but it sounds like she's in a tunnel.

The door opens and I lurch out, leaning against the wall until Dylan takes my hand and leads me toward the right room. Colton follows us down the hall, but I'm pretty sure my brother slams the door in his face. Once inside, I throw my arm around Stella and glare at Dylan. “She's sleeping in my bedroom, got it? If I can't make out with somebody tonight, then you can't, either.”

He opens his mouth but shuts it again, at a complete loss for words. We all just stand there, glaring back and forth at one another like some kind of stare down, until Dylan finally busts out laughing. Stella joins in, falling to the floor as she hoots, and then I flop back onto the sitting room sofa, laughing so hard I feel like I could throw up.

Uh-oh.

And then, I throw up.

“I'm dying,” I croak the next morning. “Or no, I'm dead, I think. My skull was crushed, and the pieces are piercing my brain. I'm definitely dead. And I didn't go to heaven. Which sucks.”

“Oh, terrific. Not only are you an angry drunk but you also have dramatic hangovers,” Dylan says from somewhere. He must've died, too. Our parents will be so sad. “Bird, take this.”

I open my eyes and everything looks blurry. A person who resembles my brother is sitting in front of me on the coffee table with a glass of water and two aspirin. “This helps,” he assures me. He places his hand under my head and lifts me a little so I can take the pill and wash it down. Water never tasted so good. “And for some reason, McDonald's does, too.”

I feel my stomach lurch and clap my hand over my mouth, slamming my eyes shut again and lying back on the couch.
Did I sleep on the couch?

“Don't you dare throw up again,” Dylan commands.

Again?

“I'm dying,” I hear Stella moan.

I turn my head and barely open my eyes as my best friend stumbles into the room. She folds herself into a giant armchair, looking worse than I've ever seen her, which is saying something since I've seen that girl with the flu. “Stella, your hair,” I manage. Her thick bangs are sticking out everywhere, like a sign giving conflicting directions, and it looks like there are pieces of something matted in her shoulder-length tresses.

“Oh my gross!” she shouts when she notices it. “Bird, I'm going to kill you!”

She stumbles out of the room, and I hear a door slam. Then I hear water running from the bathroom and assume she's in the shower.

“What'd I do?” I ask.

“Stella helped you last night,” he explains. “When you got sick. We cleaned it up, but she was pretty hammered, too, and I guess she missed some spots.”

Mortified, I realize my puke is in her hair. “I'm a terrible friend,” I whisper, closing my eyes again. For some reason, I feel my eyes well up with tears.

“We've all been there,” he says, which is weird because I'm waiting for the Dylan Barrett holier-than-thou speech about being responsible and making good decisions. “Consider this your first semester in college. Just… pace yourself next time, okay?”

I nod. He pats me on the shoulder, and I wince. I ache all over.

“I am never drinking again,” I say from the backseat of Dylan's rental car as I chow down on a Quarter Pounder with Cheese on our way back to the resort for rehearsal.