Nathan looked at me and shrugged. “Ladies first,” he said, holding the front door open.

I moved past him and headed for the car. Bailey smiled at me as she climbed into the backseat.

“I’ve never been to a club before,” she said once I’d gotten comfortable in the passenger’s seat. “I mean, like, I’ve been to my friends’ parties and stuff—obviously. But they were kind of boring. A club will be cooler, right?”

“Um… sure.”

Nathan climbed into the car and immediately turned on the air conditioner. The sun was still out, and despite it being mid-evening, the air was scorching hot and so humid I thought I’d drown. “Buckle up,” he said to me, hitting the button for the radio.

He waited until my seat belt had clicked before he even pulled out of the driveway. As if traveling those three extra feet without restraints might actually kill me or something. I didn’t expect someone who had one-night stands with strangers or threw crazy parties to have such a stick up his ass.

I didn’t say anything on the way to the Nest. Bailey jabbered away at us from the backseat, speculating on the kind of music they’d play, what the other girls there might be wearing, how crowded the place might be. After a while, Nathan cranked up the radio as a subtle hint that she should quiet down. A hint that she, eventually, took.

The silence didn’t last long, though. A minute later Nathan was singing along with the radio, tapping his fingers against the wheel to keep the beat. I couldn’t help watching, a moment from the party sliding into my memory. We’d been kissing in the armchair, amid the chaos of dancing and drinking, when Van Morrison’s “Brown Eyed Girl” started playing through the speakers.

Nathan had pulled back a little, giving me a second to come up for air. He grinned at me and started singing along with the song—off-key, but he was pretty drunk by then, so I guess that was to be expected. I reached up and clapped a hand over his mouth, laughing. “Stop. You can’t sing at all.”

Clumsily, he took hold of my wrist and eased it away from his lips. “I love this song, even if it is really old,” he slurred.

“Me, too.”

“Good, then it can be our song. You’re my brown-eyed girl.”

“But my eyes are blue,” I told him.

“I know. But there aren’t songs about blue eyes.”

I started laughing harder and almost fell off of Nathan’s lap. “Yes there are. ‘Blue Eyes Crying in the Rain,’ ‘Behind Blue Eyes,’ ‘The Bluest Eyes in Texas,’ and then there’s just ‘Blue Eyes’ by Elton John.”

“Yeah?” he said. “Well, those suck.”

“You suck.”

And then we were kissing again. It couldn’t have been long after that that we migrated to the bedroom.

Three days later, sitting in the car beside him, part of me wondered if it had really happened. He’d said that as far as he was concerned that night had never occurred, but could he really forget so easily? Probably not, but he acted like he could. He acted way better than I did.

He parked the car in front of the small brick building and cut the engine. “Behold,” he said. “The Nest.”

Honestly, the place looked kind of run-down, but the parking lot was packed with cars. Either it was actually a cool place (I kind of doubted it) or there was nothing better to do in this town.

When Nathan pushed open the front door for Bailey and me, I knew it was definitely the second theory.

First of all, the band blew. Though I admit I was impressed to see a band at all. The lead singer had zero talent, and the drummer had no rhythm whatsoever. It was just sickening, really. I knew people who had more musical ability than these guys when they were plastered. Myself included. And the sad excuse for a dance floor was half the size of the guest room at Dad’s new place. The walls were lined with booths, all packed with teenagers sipping on sodas or bobbing their heads to the music.

“Wow,” I heard Bailey murmur, and I could tell she was overwhelmed—whether by how pathetic the place was or by the number of people, I wasn’t sure.

“I’m thirsty,” Nathan said. “Let’s get drinks. What do you want, Whit?”

“Nothing.” I was already walking away from them. “I’ll get it myself.”

I’d decided early on that if I was going to track down some fun—i.e., boys and booze—I needed to ditch Nathan and Bailey. I couldn’t afford to have them cockblocking me tonight.

After scanning the room once, I came to the conclusion that the selection of guys here sucked. I mean, they were average, I guess, but none of them were hot. Because of this, I was feeling a little disappointed when I made my second turn around the dance floor.

Then I saw the sexy tanned boy sitting at the bar.

He wasn’t tall, but he had the dark and the handsome parts down. His hair was a sleek, shiny black, and his eyes were huge emerald spotlights in the dim lighting of the club. Smoldering hot, and well dressed, too. He had on a nice, neat button-up shirt and black jeans.

Target acquired.

I approached the bar, tossing back my long hair and giving him my best seductive smile. I eased up right next to him. “Hey,” I said, winking. “What’s up?”

He grinned. Rows of straight, glittering white teeth. “Do I know you?”

“Nope, but you want to.” I slid onto the barstool next to his.

“What’s your name?” he asked.

“Yours first.”

“Harrison Carlyle,” he said, sounding a little amused. “Now do I get your name?”

“Whitley Johnson.”

Harrison’s eyes widened and he sat up a little straighter as he looked me over. My moves must have been working—he was already interested. Awesome, I thought. Even if he didn’t know where I could find a party, I wouldn’t mind fooling around with him. That was one thing I loved about boys—if I wanted a quick, meaningless hookup just for fun, they were never very hard to convince.

I was wondering how much chitchat we’d have to make before I could get Harrison to take me somewhere private… and then he started talking.

“Oh my God!” he said excitedly. “Are you—You have to be! You’re totally related to Greg Johnson, aren’t you? The news guy. Are you his daughter? You are, right?”

“Um… yeah. He’s my dad.”

“That is so cool,” he cried. “I still can’t believe he moved here. No one famous lives in this place. I know he’s not a movie star or anything, but still. He’s on TV, which is a big deal around here. We love him.”

“Thanks.” Great. I was the one with boobs, but the boy had a thing for my dad. What the hell? Okay. It was time for a subject change.

“So,” I said, crossing my legs. I was wearing a short white skirt, showing off plenty of skin. Too bad it wasn’t quite tanned yet. “What all is there to do around here?”

“Absolutely nothing,” he answered, shrugging his broad shoulders. “We live in the lamest town ever. You just kind of get used to it.”

“Well…” I swiveled in my seat a little, turning so I could press my leg right up against his. My signature move. Worked every time. “We could make it exciting, if you want. I’m a pretty exciting girl.”

Then he started laughing at me.

Not the reaction I was going for.

“Oh, honey.” He reached out suddenly and took my hand in both of his. “You’re cute. You really, really are, but I’m not interested.”

“Why not?” I asked point-blank. No use wondering about it for weeks or letting my self-image plummet because of this loser. Might as well cut to the chase.

Harrison sighed and took one of his hands away from mine. “See that guy over there, with the blond?” he asked, pointing.

My eyes followed in the direction he indicated. Across the room, sitting at a booth by themselves, were Nathan and Bailey. Even from here, I could tell Bailey looked disappointed. Nathan was chatting with her, moving his arms in big, over-the-top gestures. He must have been trying to cheer her up.

“I see him,” I said, nodding. “That’s my… future stepbrother.” I choked on the last two words.

“For real?” Harrison asked.

“Yeah.”

“That sucks for you. I could just eat him up.”

I gawked at him. “What?”

“That’s why I’m not interested,” he explained calmly, like I was an irrational five-year-old. “Your stepbrother over there, he’s more my type… if you know what I mean.”

And, of course, I knew what he meant.

It figured. The one boy in this place I was interested in was not interested in me. After all the shit I’d dealt with over the last two days, getting shot down was just the icing on the cake. But I tried to soothe my ego with the fact that it wasn’t me he wasn’t interested in, it was all girls. Still, not what I needed tonight.

“Shit,” I muttered, slumping back against the bar with my arms folded over my chest.

“I’m sorry,” he said, squeezing my shoulder. “It’s nothing personal. You’re a hottie, but boobs just aren’t my thing.”

“Whatever.”

He smiled. “I still can’t believe you’re Greg Johnson’s daughter. That’s so awesome.”

“It isn’t that glamorous…. Actually, it sucks ass at the moment.”

“How is that possible?” Harrison asked. “He is so hot.”

“My dad? Christ, that’s gross.”

“He is.”

“Ew.”

He reached forward and put a hand on my knee. It was the least sexy knee-rub in the history of knee-rubs. “You get your looks from him, if it helps.”

“Thanks. But that is still gross.”

He laughed and grabbed his glass of soda. “What a pout you’ve got on you,” he said, lifting the drink to his lips.

What a jerk. My misery was not funny. Or cute.

“Here,” he said, putting his glass back down on the rickety bar. “Let me buy you a drink. What do you want?”

No matter how frustrated I felt, a free drink just wasn’t something I could turn down.

“Something strong,” I groaned.

“Coca-Cola strong enough?”

“Hardly.”

He shook his head and looked down the bar. “Joe!” he called. “Hey, honey, can you get the pretty girl a Coke?”

“Only if you stop calling me honey,” the bartender, a bearded man in his thirties, replied. “We’ve had this discussion before, Harrison.”

“Aw, Joe. It’s so cute that you think I listen.”

The bartender poured some Coke into a glass and slid it toward me. Harrison winked and handed the cash to Joe, who rolled his eyes before walking back to the other end of the bar, where more customers waited.

“He hates it when I flirt with him,” Harrison whispered to me. “Which just makes it funnier.”

I laughed and reached for my Coke. “Thanks,” I said, taking a big gulp. I tried to pretend it was tequila—or even just beer—but my body knew better. Goddamn it, I couldn’t even trick myself out of sobriety. Like those cases you hear about sometimes, when people have convinced themselves they were drunk through the power of persuasion. I wanted to persuade myself that I was wasted.

Apparently, I’m not very gullible.

I took another drink, wishing I’d thought to smuggle my bottle of cheap tequila in with me.

“So, how long are you in Hamilton for?”

“Just the summer,” I said. “Then it’s off to University of Kentucky.”

“Nice. What major?”

“No fucking idea.” I sighed. “Kind of hoping Dad will help me figure it out this summer. He went to UK, too. What about you?”

“I graduated a year ago, but I took a year off to figure out all the ‘rest of my life’ stuff, so I know how you feel. But I’m off to UCLA this fall. I’m majoring in fashion design. Maybe not the smartest choice, but it’s what I love.”

“California,” I mused. “I bet you’ll be happy to get out of this shithole.”

He shrugged. “I guess. You know, the place is lame, but it’s home. And it’s not that bad if you know where to go. You just have to have friends.”

“Then I’m screwed.”

He chuckled. “Tell you what. I’ll be your friend, okay?”

“I don’t really do friends,” I told him.

“Good,” he said. “I don’t want you to ‘do’ me. We’ve established the flaws in that plan already. But we can hang out. Oh, or shop. Your outfit is super cute…. Though I’m not a fan of the flip-flops. They look cheap.”

“Thanks, Tim Gunn. Anything else you’d like to critique?”

“I’m just being honest. You’re a fashion slut.”

“Excuse me?”

“You have good taste, but you’re stepping into too many styles,” he said. “Those flip-flops might be all the rage this season, but they don’t fit you. The rest of your look doesn’t scream ‘beach babe.’ Nope. You need to stick with one style. For you, I’d say that style is sexy-casual. Oh, some nice wedge sandals would be perfect for you.”