#&lacey.

Her glass tipped in slow motion, the g and t in it spilling out onto a nearby girl’s hair. “Motherfucker,” she swore, tempted to scream. The was the one place where she could probably get away with it, another drunk club goer in a room crowded with them, frenzied and wasting her night on gin tonics and vodka rocks. “I’m so sorry, shit, come with me.” She took the girl’s hand without asking, adrenaline spiking, dragging her through the throngs of people and towards the bar. She didn’t know the man behind it very well, but a bat of her eyelashes and she had a towel they used for spills on the counter. “Can I buy you something? What are you drinking?”

Chloé paused. “I’m really sorry,” she said again, flashing the girl — shit, she was pretty, maybe she was a model or an actress or something and she hated her already — an apologetic half-smile. Not enough to look like she was amused by her own stupidity, but enough to show she cared. “This is going to sound ridiculous, but I’m not on anything, I just love that song. So much.” She shook her head, tipping it back to the ceiling and sighing. “I’m fucked up. I’m sorry. Let me buy you a drink.”