Sweet Venom
Page 17
When we get to the bar, he rises up on tiptoe and surveys the length. He throws me a grin over his shoulder and gestures for us to follow him. He makes his way to the far end, where a lone stool sits empty.
“Seats are like gold in here,” Milo says, not having to shout as loud in this corner of the club. He pats the black vinyl cushion. “Hop on.”
I glance at Thane, who rolls his eyes at me.
“Before someone steals it,” he mumbles.
The stool is a little tall, so when I try to lift myself onto the seat I come up short. I’m about to turn and make a leap for it when I feel warm hands around my waist. I can’t help the little gasp of shock as Milo effortlessly lifts me onto the stool. His hands linger for half a second, long enough to send a shivery tingle through my body.
“There you go,” he says, releasing me like it was nothing, before turning to flag down the bartender.
The only reason I know that little moment wasn’t a total figment of my imagination is the lingering tingle at my waist and the protective scowl creasing Thane’s forehead. Right now, his expressive face is saying, I’m not sure I want my new buddy making moves on my sister.
A girly giggle bubbles up inside me. If Thane thinks Milo is making moves, then maybe he actually is. Maybe this crush won’t turn into an unrequited lovefest like all my previous ones.
While Milo orders us three sodas, I grin and try to ignore Thane. If I attempt to reassure him or let him know that I welcome Milo’s moves, well then he’ll know how I feel and it’ll be all over. Instead, I concentrate on not girling out over the cute boy and pretending like the club scene is totally my average Friday-night agenda.
I turn my attention to the crowd and study some of the more colorful characters. Club attire is a broad spectrum of styles. I see girls wearing ankle-skimming maxidresses and others wearing miniskirts shorter than anything I’ve seen even on reality TV. Some boys sport ultratight skinny jeans, while others wear theirs so baggy that they’re falling off. Thane and Milo blend in perfectly in their everyday wear, but I feel a little underdressed. I’m really glad I’m still wearing the ruffled tee and the flats, despite the pinched toes. At least I don’t look like a complete slob.
“Here we go,” Milo says, handing me and Thane tall, thin glasses of bubbling pop. When Thane starts to reach for his wallet, Milo says, “These are on me. Consider it my San Francisco housewarming present.”
Thane nods.
I smile like an idiot.
Thankfully, neither boy seems to notice. Or care.
I’m about to take a sip of my drink when I’m overwhelmed by an awful smell. A vaguely familiar awful smell. I set the glass on the bar before it slips from my hand. Eyes clenched, I focus my thoughts on something else, anything else. The horrifying image of the minotaur won’t go away.
“Not again,” I whisper.
Milo leans in. “What’s that?”
Thane looks worried.
Do not be the crazy girl in the room. If I’m going to wind up in a nuthouse Monday morning, I want to enjoy my last days of freedom. I want to enjoy Milo. Forcing a normalish smile on my face, I say, “Nothing.”
But that doesn’t make the smell go away. In fact, it’s getting worse. My eyes start to water and my nostrils sting. I’m not far from the limits of my gag reflex when, over Milo’s shoulder, I see him. I see it.
This one isn’t a man with a bull’s head. Nope, I don’t see a single manlike feature on the thing. The body looks like a lion’s, complete with furry paws and a thick mane around the neck. The head, on the other hand, belongs to some kind of bird of prey. A pair of red-and-gold-feathered wings spreads wide above the grinding crowd.
Another memory from mythology lessons springs to mind, but I force it away. Clearly my mental state is deteriorating at warp speed. I shouldn’t have come to the club. I should have gone straight to Mom and insisted she drop me at the nearest insane asylum.
Anything would be better than going through this right here, right now, in front of Milo.
I squeeze my eyes shut as tight as possible—so tight I start seeing little blue flashes of light. Tears tingle at the corners and I take a fortifying breath. I can’t shut my nostrils, though, so I lean closer to Milo and inhale a lungful of his yummy-smelling cologne.
It’s enough to let me convince myself the lion-bird is a figment of my imagination. Which, of course, it is. It has to be, no matter how sane I feel.
“Are you okay?” Thane whispers in my ear. In those three words I clearly hear the concern in his voice. I want to tell him what’s happening, to confess the monster sightings and my failing grip on reality, but not as much as I want to pretend everything’s fine. Not as much as I don’t want to spoil this night.
I can only nod.
I sense him pulling away. He’s always superprotective, but he’s also ready to back off when I need him to. The best possible kind of older brother.
“I have an idea,” Milo says cheerfully.
He leans away from me, taking his lion-bird smell-neutralizing cologne cocoon with him, and I open my eyes to see if he’s trying to put distance between himself and the crazy girl. Instead, I see him setting his glass on the bar.
He holds out his hand to me and asks, “Wanna dance?”
A cooler girl would hesitate and then coyly accept. A girl with more boy skills wouldn’t want to look so eager. Or desperate.
Not me. Nope, I break out in a goofy—and grateful—grin and blurt, “Yes!”
“Seats are like gold in here,” Milo says, not having to shout as loud in this corner of the club. He pats the black vinyl cushion. “Hop on.”
I glance at Thane, who rolls his eyes at me.
“Before someone steals it,” he mumbles.
The stool is a little tall, so when I try to lift myself onto the seat I come up short. I’m about to turn and make a leap for it when I feel warm hands around my waist. I can’t help the little gasp of shock as Milo effortlessly lifts me onto the stool. His hands linger for half a second, long enough to send a shivery tingle through my body.
“There you go,” he says, releasing me like it was nothing, before turning to flag down the bartender.
The only reason I know that little moment wasn’t a total figment of my imagination is the lingering tingle at my waist and the protective scowl creasing Thane’s forehead. Right now, his expressive face is saying, I’m not sure I want my new buddy making moves on my sister.
A girly giggle bubbles up inside me. If Thane thinks Milo is making moves, then maybe he actually is. Maybe this crush won’t turn into an unrequited lovefest like all my previous ones.
While Milo orders us three sodas, I grin and try to ignore Thane. If I attempt to reassure him or let him know that I welcome Milo’s moves, well then he’ll know how I feel and it’ll be all over. Instead, I concentrate on not girling out over the cute boy and pretending like the club scene is totally my average Friday-night agenda.
I turn my attention to the crowd and study some of the more colorful characters. Club attire is a broad spectrum of styles. I see girls wearing ankle-skimming maxidresses and others wearing miniskirts shorter than anything I’ve seen even on reality TV. Some boys sport ultratight skinny jeans, while others wear theirs so baggy that they’re falling off. Thane and Milo blend in perfectly in their everyday wear, but I feel a little underdressed. I’m really glad I’m still wearing the ruffled tee and the flats, despite the pinched toes. At least I don’t look like a complete slob.
“Here we go,” Milo says, handing me and Thane tall, thin glasses of bubbling pop. When Thane starts to reach for his wallet, Milo says, “These are on me. Consider it my San Francisco housewarming present.”
Thane nods.
I smile like an idiot.
Thankfully, neither boy seems to notice. Or care.
I’m about to take a sip of my drink when I’m overwhelmed by an awful smell. A vaguely familiar awful smell. I set the glass on the bar before it slips from my hand. Eyes clenched, I focus my thoughts on something else, anything else. The horrifying image of the minotaur won’t go away.
“Not again,” I whisper.
Milo leans in. “What’s that?”
Thane looks worried.
Do not be the crazy girl in the room. If I’m going to wind up in a nuthouse Monday morning, I want to enjoy my last days of freedom. I want to enjoy Milo. Forcing a normalish smile on my face, I say, “Nothing.”
But that doesn’t make the smell go away. In fact, it’s getting worse. My eyes start to water and my nostrils sting. I’m not far from the limits of my gag reflex when, over Milo’s shoulder, I see him. I see it.
This one isn’t a man with a bull’s head. Nope, I don’t see a single manlike feature on the thing. The body looks like a lion’s, complete with furry paws and a thick mane around the neck. The head, on the other hand, belongs to some kind of bird of prey. A pair of red-and-gold-feathered wings spreads wide above the grinding crowd.
Another memory from mythology lessons springs to mind, but I force it away. Clearly my mental state is deteriorating at warp speed. I shouldn’t have come to the club. I should have gone straight to Mom and insisted she drop me at the nearest insane asylum.
Anything would be better than going through this right here, right now, in front of Milo.
I squeeze my eyes shut as tight as possible—so tight I start seeing little blue flashes of light. Tears tingle at the corners and I take a fortifying breath. I can’t shut my nostrils, though, so I lean closer to Milo and inhale a lungful of his yummy-smelling cologne.
It’s enough to let me convince myself the lion-bird is a figment of my imagination. Which, of course, it is. It has to be, no matter how sane I feel.
“Are you okay?” Thane whispers in my ear. In those three words I clearly hear the concern in his voice. I want to tell him what’s happening, to confess the monster sightings and my failing grip on reality, but not as much as I want to pretend everything’s fine. Not as much as I don’t want to spoil this night.
I can only nod.
I sense him pulling away. He’s always superprotective, but he’s also ready to back off when I need him to. The best possible kind of older brother.
“I have an idea,” Milo says cheerfully.
He leans away from me, taking his lion-bird smell-neutralizing cologne cocoon with him, and I open my eyes to see if he’s trying to put distance between himself and the crazy girl. Instead, I see him setting his glass on the bar.
He holds out his hand to me and asks, “Wanna dance?”
A cooler girl would hesitate and then coyly accept. A girl with more boy skills wouldn’t want to look so eager. Or desperate.
Not me. Nope, I break out in a goofy—and grateful—grin and blurt, “Yes!”
