You Before Anyone Else (2 page)

Finley

“What are you so afraid of?” Summer asks.

I take a sip of the beer Dima brought me a few minutes ago. “Oh, I don't know, addiction, overdose, puking on some innocent victim's shoes, random drug testing by the agency…”

Summer laughs. “Drug testing on models? Yeah, that'll be the day.”

Okay, so maybe I just don't want to do it. Even if I should be in my so-called experimental phase.

I wouldn't exactly label myself a rule follower, but I guess I'm just cautious. I haven't always been this way. Not that I've done drugs, but before high school, I was all about ballet. Let's just say I had a rep for being the sassy troublemaker. My mom being my ballet teacher may have had something to do with my behavior. My fingers immediately move to the cross dangling from my neck—I've only removed it a couple times over the last four years. Somehow, it's always warmer than my hands.

I debate texting my dad to ask him if he's done coke or molly. He'd probably tell me. But I wouldn't want to freak him out. Seems like a conversation better reserved for a weekend visit instead of late on a Friday night when I could be too far gone to help, for all he knows.

I glance around the room and finally spot someone I know: my friend Alex and his girlfriend Eve. Alex and I did a big Calvin Klein shoot last year, and Eve was the photographer's assistant. Actually, Eve used to be a model too, another preteen/teen phenom like Elana, who headlined that CK shoot along with Alex. My part had been fairly small, and still, that was my biggest job ever.

“Have you met Alex?”

Summer shrugs, grabs two more shots of vodka, and hands me one. “Like I would remember.”

I down the shot quickly and prepare to talk to Alex and Eve. Maybe they've done drugs and can advise me. But my buzzing phone distracts me. I pull it out of my purse and glance at the new text.

JASON:
Yeah, it's so weird to be home again. But I missed it.

My stomach flip-flops. He replied to my text. Hours later, but still…this could mean—

“Oh lord, you're pathetic.” Summer is leaned toward me, reading over my shoulder. “That's probably enough for you to live off of for another six months or so, right?”

I glare at her and shove the phone back into my purse.

“No comeback? Wonder why…” She pretends to be in deep thought. “He said he missed
it
. Not you. Cut the fucking cord already. It's not healthy.”

If only it were that easy. When you're in a relationship with someone for four years, you get so comfortable with that person. It's daunting to start all over again.

I make my way across the room to see Alex and Eve, who are leaning against the back of the couch, more absorbed in each other than anything else.

“I heard Elana's back from France?” Alex asks me, keeping his voice low.

“Yep, her and her mom. I think her mom is driving her crazy, but that's to be expected. French Mama is driving me crazy too.”

They both laugh at the mention of French Mama, but I can't take credit for that title. Summer made it up.

“I can't believe her parents let her come back to New York,” Eve says.

Alex smiles at her. “You're just upset that they're here and not in France where we can hit them up for lodging.”

My gaze travels back and forth between the two of them. “You guys are going to France? Are you going for Fashion Week?”

Eve shakes her head. “Nope. I did the Prada shoot, and I'm done for good. Got tuition for next year covered.”

Even though Eve had supposedly quit modeling a few years ago, she pulled a one-last-job stunt last spring to cover her tuition at Columbia. She's a photography student with a lot of experience under her belt.

“We're doing the cheap travel, backpacking in Europe but without actual backpacks thing,” Alex explains.

Across the room, another beer pong player is being requested. This could possibly be the most adventurous thing I'm willing to do here. I turn to Alex and Eve again. “Well, good luck in Europe. I'm gonna go play beer pong.”

“Hey.” I grab Dima's shirt sleeve. “You need another player?”

He looks me over, deliberating. “Sure. Be the new guy's partner.”

“The new guy?” I glance around. What does that even mean? New to the party, like he just walked in? I've been here fifteen minutes.

“He's new to the agency,” Dima says. “First casting, and he books some big job.”

“So we hate him then, right?” I joke. I turn around to head toward the game table and run right into a guy about my age with wild, dark curly hair and designer jeans.

“This guy,” Dima says to me and then turns to the new guy. “Got you a partner. Finley. She lives in the agency apartment downstairs.”

They exchange a look that says I've been mentioned before. I'm not liking that too much, but usually, I don't come to these parties. Instead, I bang on the door at two in the morning to tell them to stop thumping around like elephants. Maybe I got a bad rep.

While we wait for Dima to find a partner, I snatch two beers from a nearby cooler and offer one up to New Guy. “So, Dima said you're new, but he didn't say where you're from.”

“Uh…the Midwest.”

“The Midwest.” Okay. Someone doesn't want to get personal. “Like Wisconsin or like Chicago?”

“Chicago…well, not in Chicago, but around it, you know?” he says.

“Right.” I pop open my can and take a drink. “What's your name? I'm sorry, I don't think Dima said…”

“Eddie.” He lifts his gaze again. “Eddie Wells. And you're Finley Belton, the girl who lives downstairs.”

Summer breezes past me but stops when she spots me holding the beer pong ball. “Beer pong? Oh, you wild animal…grrrr.” She holds up her tiger paws and growls at me.

I give her the finger and then turn back to Eddie. “I'm
one
of the girls who live downstairs.”

“One is too bitchy, one is too underage, and one is nice,” he recites, most likely quoting Dima.

This is exactly what I'm trying to escape tonight. “Dima called me the baby bear?” I'm secretly hoping he catches my reference to Goldilocks.

“No,” Eddie says. “He called you Finley Belton, but I added the nice part, because you brought me a beer. And it is just right, not to mention you're talking to me instead of staring and whispering to other people about me.”

Points for his fairy tale knowledge, and I'm sure the whispering is the result of whatever big job he's landed. Too many models at this party.

Eve tries to be Dima's partner, but he refuses and tells Alex to play with him. Eve opens her mouth to protest, but Dima holds up a hand. “Don't even. I know your type. You'll engineer some fancy trick shots. No Ivy League players showing me up. I got a rep to protect.”

“Fine,” Eve snaps. “I'll just stand here and look pretty. And I'm definitely rooting for Fin and…” She gestures toward the new guy.

“Eddie,” I fill in for her. “Eddie from Chicago.”

“Eddie from Chicago,” Eve repeats. “Good luck.”

Summer returns and stands beside Eve, both leaning against the back of the love seat.

“Fin makes a great partner,” Summer says to Eddie. “She knits. Lots of finger dexterity.”

I shoot her a glare and will my face not to heat up. So not cool.

Eddie

“Finger dexterity, huh?” I say to Finley.

Dima might not have used the word
nice
when he gave me the quick 411 on the models downstairs, but he had labeled Finley as too sweet. But without proof, I'm undecided.

She looks at me, a big smile on her face. “Yep. That's a thing.”

It's a thing. All right then. I nod toward the table. “You take the first shot.”

“Just so you know—” Finley rolls the ball between her fingers.

“Don't worry, I don't have any expectations.” This is true. Tonight is a big test for me. I've been away from the party scene for months. I need to prove to myself I can be this, be here, without getting out of control. Because if I can't, I have a lot further to go than I realized.

“I was going to say,” Finley says, prepping for her shot, “that I'm extremely competitive. Meaning, if you screw up”—she tosses the ball and sinks it, easy—“I might kick you off the team. But don't take it personally.”

A cheer erupts from the two girls beside us—the animal-noise girl and the Ivy League girl. Dima downs the cup of beer, and Finley leans closer to me. Her hair brushes over my arm. “So what's your technique? Do you have any trick shots?”

“Yeah, well…” I start to say and then, “No.”

She laughs. “At least you're honest.”

Depends what you ask me. “I'll drink first. Will that help?”

Dima's partner—Alex, I think—makes his shot. I hesitate for a second and then down the beer. Damn, these cups are way too full.

Finley gives me a pat on the back. “Well done. Maybe that can be your job?”

I hold the ball in my hand, and I'm nervous all of a sudden. It's just a stupid-ass drinking game, but I can't get my father's voice out of my head.
You play something, you sure as hell better
win.

“I recommend the arch technique,” Finley says. “Nice and easy, big arch.”

I look at her and smile. She's completely serious. Somehow, this takes the pressure off me. Like if she's worried, I don't have to be. “The arch.” I nod. “Nice and easy.”

“You got this, Eddie,” Finley says.

And for a second, the world is at my fingertips. Then I realize no, I don't got this. The ball taps the inside of a cup and then hits Dima right in the crotch.

I scratch my head and avoid looking at Finley. I need to get out of my own damn head. “Sorry.”

“It's okay. Next time.”

Luckily, Dima misses his shot. Finley goes for the bounce shot this time and sinks it again, earning her a cheering section of four or five people now. Alex picks up that cup to drink, then passes the second to Dima.

The Ivy League girl points a finger at Dima. “Do not get him drunk. We have an 8:00 a.m. flight.”

Like Finley, Alex makes his second shot. I offer to drink the beer, but Dima stops me. “She has to drink. That's the rule.”

“You just want her impaired,” Ivy League girls says. “If you aren't considering weight or metabolic rate, it's hardly fair to make everyone drink the same amount.”

Dima spreads his arms out wide. “And this is why I don't allow Ivy League players. None of that shit in this game. Keep it simple. Otherwise, I'll get a fucking headache.”

“He's right.” Finley picks up the cup, staring it down even longer than I had. “Rules are rules.”

She chugs the beer like a champ and tosses the empty cup aside. When it's my turn again, I focus more on my shot, less on all the noise in my head. Maybe all this newfound inner peace will kick in. Right. About. Now.

“Yes!” Finley shouts. She spins to face me. “That was beautiful. Perfect arch.”

I'm about to thank her, but the animal-noise girl distracts me. She's making some kind of gesture that I'm pretty sure would be in the crude category, but it's hard to tell. “Uh, what is she…?”

Finley turns around, and her cheeks and the tips of her ears turn bright red. “Summer. Stop.”

Summer. The bitchy
one.

“Tourette's,” Finley says to me. “She doesn't like to talk about it.”

And Finley Belton. The sweet one.

She jumps into a deep explanation of why my last shot was so great, and her words start to blur together in this hypnotic way that relaxes me, makes me forget about anything outside of Finley and her jeans, hugging her ass perfectly. And the tank top straps that keep shifting, exposing more bare skin.

“What do I like to do for fun?” Finley says, tossing the ball in the air and catching it again. I shake my head. I missed something. “This is what I should have said.”

“What? Parties?” I ask.

“That stupid casting guy,” she says, rolling her eyes. “What do you like to do for fun?” She mimics his voice perfectly. We must have had the same casting today. “I should have said I'm a beer pong champion.”

“And you play poker and scratch your balls a lot,” I suggest.

She nods. I think the beer is working its magic. “Yes. That. Probably ride a Harley too.”

“So what did you tell them?” I ask.

“The truth. Unfortunately.”

I smile again. “Cute.”

“So they said.” She tosses the ball at the wall beside us. It bounces off and lands squarely in the cup sitting in front of Alex. “Cute sucks.”

Yeah, agree to disagree.

Finley

Eddie and I have one cup left. And it's my turn. Problem is that Alex and Dima have only two cups left, which means I've drank a lot of beer. And my partner is really cute. (Is it fair to call him cute? I hated on cute a little while ago.) So he's distracting. Like right now. Eddie's hands land on my shoulders, and he massages them, boxing ring–style.

“You ready for this?” he asks. “Still seeing singles? Just one cup down there, right?”

I squint and focus on the other end of the table. “Yep, one red Solo cup.”

He's about to let go of me, and I'm not ready for that yet. I reach up and grab his T-shirt, tugging him closer. “I have to tell you something.”

“What?” he asks, all serious.

“I'm not really good at beer pong.” I stare down at the cup and aim. “This is all just a ploy to seduce you.”

“Really?” Eddie asks, and I have to look up at him from over my shoulder. He's got nice eyes. And a nice chin. Even upside down. “You haven't missed any shots…”

I ignore Eddie's logic and continue on my path. “I heard people saying you're the next big star, so I figured I'd get to you first. I'm good like that. Always thinking about my next big move.”

“Blondie,” Dima says. “Get a move on it.”

Finally, I let go of Eddie's shirt. But I can feel him close behind me. Before I release the ball, he leans down and whispers, “I have to tell you something.”

“What?”

“I'm not really good at beer pong,” Eddie says. “This is all a ploy to seduce you.”

I laugh. “Clearly.”

The ball leaves my hand, bounces once on the table, and then plops right into the last cup of beer. I pick up the cup with the ball in it and hand it to Dima. “That's the game, and that's what you get for calling me the nice one.”

He shoots a glare at Eddie and then grins at me. “It's all relative. I mean, compared to you-know-who…” He gives a nod in Summer's direction. She got bored with our game and is chatting up some guy in the kitchen.

Eve says a quick good-bye to me and Eddie and then drags Alex out of the apartment. He doesn't look drunk. Much.

I wave my hand over my face, fanning it. All the people packed in a small apartment have made it stifling in here. I head for the back door, and Eddie follows right behind.

“Where are you going?” he asks, worried.

Cute.

“Just getting some air.” I snatch a water bottle from the kitchen counter. “It's hot in here.”

“I'll go with you,” Eddie offers. “In case there are balance problems.”

I give him this look like he's crazy. “I just won beer pong. My balance is amazing.”

Dima's balcony is identical to mine except without plastic furniture. I lean over the railing and look. This must make Eddie nervous, because he rushes over and casually rests a hand on my back.

“I live right there…” I point a finger south. When he doesn't lean over to look, I turn to face him. “I'm fine, I swear. You're free to go have some party fun. Do some 'shrooms, get laid, get a haircut.”

He laughs. “Get a haircut? At midnight?”

I shrug. “Or a tattoo.”

“I don't really know anyone in there.” He glances at the sliding glass door and then up at the sky.

“Aw, poor new guy.” I pat his cheek and then leave my hand there for a few seconds. His skin is soft. “No friends. Everyone's jealous of your big job. What do you do for fun, Eddie?”

Whatever he says is obviously the answer, because somehow he got a big job today, and I didn't. I bet that's more hearsay than truth.

“Well…” He slides an inch closer to me. “Sometimes, I like to knit hats for little orphaned dogs. And subway rats.”

I tilt my head, studying him. “Yeah…sorry. You're not right for the part. Too sweet.”

Because Eddie Wells is not even close to my type, I can just enjoy him and not worry about screwing anything up.

“Is that what he told you?” Eddie asks. “The casting guy?”

I touch a finger to his lips. “Can't say. It'll ruin the illusion. I won't be as interesting.”

He leans into my finger. “Doubtful.”

I can feel my pulse against his lips. I don't know where this is going, but it isn't the kind of moment that stops. For a minute, we stay just like that. Neither of us says anything. But Eddie's got this look like he's far inside his head. I thought it would be me deliberating this, thinking. Thinking way too much.

I push away from the railing and take a few steps toward the door. “It's probably time for me to go back downstairs. Want to walk with me? All the stairs, balance issues…”

This isn't exactly a talent of mine, asking guys back to my apartment. I've only done it, like, never. So maybe I'm wrong about Eddie's hesitations. Maybe he's being polite. And when I leave, he does follow me. Even grabs a backpack near the door.

I try not to look at Summer when we exit Dima's apartment. I stay a couple steps in front of Eddie on the walk to my front door.

I could just ask him to come inside and hang out.

But maybe we'll get in my room, and I won't even want to do more than kiss him. Is that allowed? I don't know the rules.

Because the beer is still talking for me, I blurt out those exact words.

“What rules?” Eddie asks. His forehead wrinkles. He cups the back of his neck with his hand, his shirt lifting, revealing a strip of his abs.

I almost chicken out. But then I keep thinking about this feeling and how it might not be here tomorrow and how much I like it. How much I want to follow the path in this mysterious tunnel and see where it leads.

“Rules,” I repeat. “Like if I ask you to hang out in my apartment and you say yes and then—”

He nods, catching on. “Right. Those rules.”

Yeah, you know them, Eddie. Probably much better
than I do.

But that doesn't sound too bad, a guy who knows what he's doing. My heart is slamming against my chest now. That was a lot of bold in one sentence. But my unskilled beer pong partner maybe isn't so impressed with my bold streak. “My ‘nice' label scared you off, huh?”

“No.” He shakes his head. “It's not that.” He rakes a hand through his hair.

Now I'm just plain curious. Not like I haven't caught him looking at me several times tonight. Not like he hasn't found excuses to touch me. So what then? “Oh, you have a girlfriend?”

“No,” he says with just the right amount of time between my question and his answer—not too quick, not too much thought.

“Okay, what then?” I hope that doesn't sound pushy. I'm honestly curious.

Eddie doesn't say anything. Just moves closer, lifts a hand, and picks up the cross on my chest.

“Oh, that,” I say, trying to calm my heart with his fingers right near it. “I also have a poster of Jesus above my bed. Wanna see it?”

Eddie laughs, the tension finally breaking. “Yeah, okay. What the hell?”

I grin. Finally. He gets it. What the hell? That's the attitude.

I open the front door and pull him through the apartment as quickly and quietly as possible. The second we're in the privacy of my own room, Eddie's hands are in my hair, and he lowers his lips to mine. It's like we'd both been wanting to do this for hours. I can't get close enough, can't get his shirt over his head quick enough.

It's fast and fun and light. Light as air. Though that could be the beer.