Meet Me at Midnight

Neon is packed like a damn can of sardines. Music vibrates from the massive speakers that sit throughout the warehouse-style nightclub, and the dance floor is filled with writhing bodies.

And I, Juniper Perry, am right in the middle of it, even though I said I wouldn’t be. But it’s not that big of a surprise. When it comes to Avery, I have a painfully low streak of resistance.

“Aren’t you so happy you decided to come out tonight?” Avery questions, a vodka cranberry in one hand as she wraps her arm around my shoulder.

“Do you want me to tell you the real answer or the answer you want to hear?”

“The answer I want to hear,” she responds unabashedly, her red lips curving up into a smile.

“I’m having the time of my life,” I say, voice monotone but eyes dancing with sarcasm.

Avery laughs at that and spins me around to face the dancing crowd that sits below our feet.

Six bartenders work the big glass bar in the center for the commonfolk, but we sit tight as waitresses deliver us bottle service. Avery’s hookup buddy David reserved the VIP section in the hope of landing a quick bang, and Avery has been full-on flirtatious with him in return. She doesn’t need men to pay for her drinks—her trust fund and obscene monthly allowance ensure that—but she loves the thrill of the chase as men fight to keep her attention.

And trust me, she’s a master at the game. A twenty-three-year-old certified man-eater who has no plans of settling down anytime soon. Oddly enough, I admire her audacity. Admire her confidence and ability to put herself first in all situations. Admire her ability to go after what she wants, no matter what other people think of it.

If I were more like Avery, I probably wouldn’t give a shit about how absent my parents have been for most of my life or the fact that my father would rather buy my affection with expensive gifts and cash than show up. I probably wouldn’t be scared to show Beau how I truly feel about him.

The wealthy lifestyle is a privilege I don’t take lightly, but for a few simple things, I’d trade it all in a heartbeat.

“I think we need to dance,” Avery announces, and her boy toy David might as well be a puppy on a leash. His tail is practically wagging as he sidles up beside my best friend, raring to go.

“Then let’s go dance,” he says and wraps his arm around her waist, tugging her closer to his side and removing her arm from my shoulder in the process. It’s only then that I sort of get why Avery thinks he’s hot. His blue eyes have something alluring about them, and his willingness to jump at her every whim is unmatched.

“You want to dance with me?” Avery questions, fluttering her eyelashes.

“You haven’t ever seen moves like mine, baby,” David says, and I cringe. He’s hot, but he should say a lot less—maybe even nothing. He should just smile more, you know? Like people love to tell women.

“Hold that thought for, like, fifteen minutes, ’kay?” Avery says and kisses the tip of her index finger before pressing it to the corner of David’s mouth. “I need a little best-friend time with June. Be back.”

“Don’t keep me waiting too long, baby. My dick’s already a fucking bat,” David says, and I fight the urge to vomit in my mouth. All the baby usage and dirty talk is unsettling my stomach. I don’t know if I’m broken or something, but to me, all men but Beau Banks are creepy as fuck.

Avery responds by blowing him a kiss before grabbing my hand and dragging me out of the VIP section. She offers a flirty smile to one of the security guards working the VIP entrance stairs before guiding us into the crowd of dancing bodies.

Of the two of us, Avery has always been the lead partier. I followed her because I’d be flogged if I didn’t—even got pretty good at downing shots in college—but the more I go out, the more I end up in some weird internal crisis about what life has to offer other than this. Realistically, are parties and booze and money and fancy yachts and big mansions with the best ocean view going to be it for me?

Or is there more? Something better? Something real?

And how shitty of a person do I have to be to complain about how rich I am? I don’t want to be ungrateful, I swear. I know I’ve been afforded a million things that so many people do nothing but dream about. But I just…I don’t know. It all feels fucking shallow. Like there’s no substance or purpose at all.

It’s so complicated.

I sigh. See? Crisis.

Avery drags us to the middle of the dance floor, having no qualms about pushing people out of our way as she does, and doesn’t let go of my hand until she finds an open spot in the middle of the floor she deems worthy of our dance moves.

When we’re in the zone, we take up a lot of space, especially when Avery does her personal modification of a twerk. She calls it the “booty rizz,” and I don’t think we’ve been to a party or a club in the last five years where she hasn’t used it.

She shakes her ass, smiling over at me as she does, and I force myself to let go and vibe with the beat of the music. It’s not long before I’m fully immersed in the song, raising my hands in the air, and circling my hips. I lean my head back and can feel the swish of my long red locks on the bare area of my lower back.

Despite my reservations, it actually starts to feel good. I guess all that bullshit they tell you about moving your body being beneficial for your mind has some truth to it.

But Avery’s moves are a Miami mating call, and it’s not long before the vultures are circling. A big, muscular guy with a buzz cut and a toothy smile slides in beside me, and a tall guy with blond hair is now on the receiving end of Avery’s signature ass-grind. So much for David, I guess?

“You wanna dance, sweet thing?” Buzz Cut asks me, his meaty hands already grabbing my hips, and my blood pressure skyrockets.

I make a snap decision to slip out of the dancing crowd and head toward the bar, using the ASL alphabet I learned in third grade to pretend I’m deaf when Buzz Cut calls after me. I know it’s shitty to appropriate a disability like that, but men are scary. Sometimes, moral compromise is the lesser evil.

I get a water from the bartender and slide into an empty barstool as soon as it’s vacated. I chug half the bottle before turning back to keep tabs on Avery—who is now making out with the blond.

“Great,” I mutter, a sardonic laugh that probably makes me seem mentally unstable to the people around me. But if they had any idea how many times I’ve been on crime-scene cleanup due to Avery’s fickle affection, they’d be talking to themselves too.

I try to distract myself from the likelihood of David’s impending breakdown when he sees Avery on the dance floor sucking face with some random dude by people-watching the crowd, but it gets me into even more trouble.

There’s a dark, wavy, familiar head of hair in one of the VIP sections above the dance floor, and my heart kicks up into a sprint on its chest treadmill.

Beau Banks is here, and suddenly, nothing else matters.

He doesn’t frequent clubs or bars like his sister, but it’s not out of the ordinary to see him out either. Especially on a day like today—with the way work ended in a Celebrity Deathmatch with Seth—it makes sense that he’s blowing off steam. He’s the definition of an Extroverted Introvert personality.

He’s with a few guys I recognize, friends of his I’ve met over the years because I spent more time with the Bankses than I did my own family, and his smile is showstopping, even from here.

He laughs at something his buddy Henry says, and a flock of butterflies escapes their cage inside my belly. I hang on Beau’s every silent word, trying like hell to read his lips as a blond stunner in a red bodycon dress sidles up beside him.

She’s the kind of gorgeous and sexy that’s obvious. You know the ones—big boobs and a thick ass paired with a small waist and one of those collarbones that looks ethereal or carved out of stone or something. And she’s standing so close to him that every time she laughs at whatever Beau says, her pushed-up breasts brush his arm.

In a head-to-head matchup, my gangly, long legs and overly freckled skin would get KO’ed in the first round, and yet, I find myself fantasizing wildly about him brushing her off to come talk to me instead.

I’m delusional at this point. Truly.

Sometimes, I think my life would be so much easier if I could get over my crush on Beau. But after a decade of trying to move on and failing miserably, I’m starting to think it’s going to take an exorcism or, I don’t know…death…to actually do it.

I wallow in my misery for a few minutes longer, watching the way she reaches up to brush some of Beau’s perfect hair out of his eyes, but when I feel like he’s getting a little too smiley with her, and I get that stabby, can’t-breathe level of jealousy in my chest I used to get when I watched him with his ex Bethany, I avert my attention.

“What are you drinking?”

The question feels like it comes out of nowhere, but I’m pretty sure that’s the heartbroken disassociation talking. When I look to my right, I see a man standing beside me. He’s pretty tall, has light-brown hair, gray eyes, and a nice smile that isn’t threatening or over the top. His appeal is more boy-next-door than dark and dangerous, and for once, I consider the possibility that maybe I shouldn’t immediately scare him away like I usually do with most random men who approach me in nightclubs.

Avery is always saying the best way to get over someone is to get under someone else, and while I normally think she’s insane, seeing Beau smiling at big-boobed blonde bombshells is enough to shake my reality.

“Uh…water,” I answer, shrugging one shoulder as I glance down at my now half-empty bottle.

“Water?” he questions, a smirk on his mouth.

“I know,” I respond with a grin, trying on something flirty rather than my usual scowl. “Kind of lame, huh?”

“Well, that depends.”

“On what?”

“If you’re on probation or a recovering alcoholic, then it wouldn’t be lame at all. It’d be pretty smart.”

“And if I were either of those, would you still be standing here?” I test. “Or would you already be searching for your exit strategy?”

“I’d never shame someone for trying to get healthy from an addiction. But it’d definitely depend on what you’re on probation for…”

I quirk a brow. “Murder.”

“You managed to get probation with murder?” he challenges back, amusement in his eyes.

“I had a really good lawyer.”

“Well, then, no.” He laughs. “But I would be focused on getting your lawyer’s info because that’s pretty good.”

“Why? You planning on murdering someone?” I tilt my head to the side, challenging him again. “Because I don’t fuck with guys like that.”

“Man,” he says through another laugh, running a hand through his brown hair. “You’re something. Was that trap preplanned or organic?”

I take a long sip of my water, holding eye contact as I swallow. “That information is classified.”

He smiles at me, his gray eyes dancing with entertainment. “I’m Miller, by the way.” He holds out his hand, and I take it.

“June.” I never give my full name in a situation like this. Juniper is too easy to find in an internet search should Miller turn out to be of the stalker variety and, quite frankly, too distracting. Once they hear it, they can never leave it alone.

“Well, June, can I buy you a drink?”

“I appreciate the offer, Miller, but I’m staying sober tonight, and the water’s free.”

“And what about tomorrow night?” he questions, his body leaning closer to mine. “Even if you don’t want to drink, I could offer dinner at an earlier hour.”

“You trying to ask me out?”

He shrugs. “If I say yes, will you give me your number?”

I dig my teeth into my bottom lip, hesitation heavy in my mind. On the one hand, Miller seems like a perfectly nice guy, but on the other, meeting strangers in clubs or bars has never really ended in anything great. Out of the two times I’ve tried it in the past, I got an excited texter who only used capital letters and exclamation points for every single word he exchanged and a guy with a horror-film-style apartment, complete with mold and actual fecal matter, that ruined the term bachelor pad for me for eternity.

In fact, besides Kai, a guy I met at a house party at the University of Miami and dated on and off for a year, no one I’ve tried dating at all has lasted more than an outing or two.

Which I guess makes sense on an intrinsic level—usually, when you fall in love, that’s your cue to stop looking. From personal experience, it’s a little trickier when they don’t love you back.

“C’mon,” Miller cajoles. “You can’t tell me a free meal is that bad of an idea.”

“I don’t know… I’m not big on meeting strangers in clubs.”

“What about parks?”

“Parks?” I question, puzzled over whatever angle he’s trying to take, but intrigued all the same. I have to admit that he’s determined, at least, and getting this level of attention feels nice.

“I have a little bulldog named Sadie. I walk her every Wednesday afternoon—”

“Everything okay here?”

I glance over my shoulder to find Beau standing there, his brown eyes flitting between me and Miller in concern. I furrow my brow as I look behind him to the VIP section he left behind, where his buddy Henry is the one talking to the blonde in red now.

“Yeah, man,” Miller says. “Everything’s great.”

“You sure, June?” Beau’s eyes are on me now. “This guy isn’t causing you any trouble, is he?”

A wave of excitement rushes over me as I consider the possibility that my wildest dreams are coming true. Did Beau actually leave behind the woman in red to notice me? To care about me? To love me?

“You know this guy?” Miller asks, a double question to cancel out my need for an answer to the first.

They’re swinging dicks of protection, and a little trill of glee makes me sit up straighter. In my mind’s eye, Beau’s next move will be to throw fists now and ask questions later. I am his damsel, in need of assistance and care, and he’s going to do it in gallant—

“Yeah, she knows me,” Beau answers for me. “We grew up together. I’m basically her brother.”

Every cell inside me withers and dies a slow, free fall of a death from my imaginary princess tower. My fairy tale is over, my bubble burst.

I’m basically her brother? Someone shoot me now and put me out of my fucking misery.

“June!” Avery shouts, her chest dewy with sweat and her eyes desperate as the blond dude she was making out trails behind her on their way toward me. “Get your ass back out here! We have more dancing to do!”

Five minutes ago, I never would have dreamed of walking away from a situation where Beau Banks was paying attention to my existence, but my corpse has other rules. She only allows for one emotional murder per night, and the brother line definitely finished the job.

“Coming!” I say, scooting out from my spot on the stool in between Miller and Beau and leaving my nearly empty water bottle on the bar.

I wave goodbye to both of them, and I don’t look back. My dignity won’t allow it.

Knowing I’ll wake up tomorrow morning still in love with the guy who sees himself as my brother is more than bad enough.