What have you done?” she yells, pushing me. I stumble back, hands up.
Who is this crazy bitch? And what did she do with my girlfriend, Annalise?
“What do you mean?”
“I knew it the minute I saw you! It’s true, isn’t it, Miller?”
Annalise’s hair is tangled, her cheeks red. She’s so loud that people have started to watch.
It’s kinda hot.
“You egotistical man-whore!” she shrieks, pushing me again.
She’s starting to freak me out. “Hey, chill out. Fuckin’ Hamptons traffic, baby—”
“You just use people, don’t you? You use and you use—”
“Fuck, baby, it was back-to-back—”
“And you reek of pot!” she screeches.
“Okay now,” says Phillip, all low and soothing. “Annalise? Just look at me for a second, okay?”
She keeps glaring at me, biting her bottom lip. Fuck, she’s scary as hell. So why is it kinda turning me on?
“Please, Annalise?” says Phillip, like how you talk to a kid bawling over a skinned knee. She finally looks at him.
“Annalise,” says Phillip quietly, moving in close to her. “I’m worried about you.”
She stares at him, the anger slowly dripping off her face.
Suddenly, Annalise smiles. A weird one I’ve never seen before. Like she thinks he’s the sweetest mofo in the world. She puts her hand on his cheek.
If I didn’t know her, I’d think she was on something.
“You are the best guy ever, Phillip,” she says. “And your skin is so soft!”
She’s totally on something.
The music stops. “Hope you dug on that,” says a voice. We all turn to the stage, where a douche in leather pants is talking into a mike. He’s older than fuck. “And now for a classic,” he says, the band—if you can call them that—starting the intro chords. “Reminds me of that time I woke up on the floor at CBGB’s in my own puke. Let’s get our groove on, Hamptons!”
“There’s a loving in your eyes all the way. . . .”
Cheesy as hell. I hate this fucking music.
“I love this song!” squeals Annalise, finally taking her hand off Phillip’s face. “I’m going to dance!” She does a little bounce-turn toward the stage. She’s about to run, then stops. Turns to me with a sneer. “I will hate you for eternity, Miller Crawford the Third,” she hisses.
Then she’s gone, skipping off toward the packed floor.
“Karma karma karma karma karma chameleon . . .”
“That was crazy,” says Phillip. “What did she take?”
“I don’t know, man, but it freaked me the fuck out.” I’m already headed toward the bar. “I really need a drink.”
Three shots and two beers later, I’m even more pissed. Make that four shots. In front of me, some chick I call my girlfriend is going nut job. Dancing like nobody else is around, flipping her hair, doing some weird-ass grind like a stripper on her off-hour.
And the worst part? It’s sexy as shit. And other guys think so, too. All these fat Wall Street bastards watching from the sides, smirking with drinks in their hands.
“Refill,” I say, slamming my glass down on the bar. The bartender frowns but reaches for the whiskey anyway.
“Slow down,” says Phillip.
“Fuck you. Hey, thanks for having my back. Bros before hos, mofo.” Wait, what the fuck is she doing now?
Annalise is sitting on some dude’s lap. Giggling.
“Who is that piece of shit?”
“Hey,” says Phillip. “Don’t worry about—”
“I’m fucking serious, man!”
“Lower your voice.”
This time I yell. “Who the fuck is—”
“Christian Rixen,” says a woman next to me, all perky and teeth. She smiles, happy as can be. “A royal from Denmark, he’s a very well-known jewelry designer!”
“So he likes dudes?” I ask, momentarily relieved.
She looks confused. Her dress is way too pink.
“That’s kind of homophobic, my friend,” says Phillip.
“Oh, no!” she chirps. “Christian’s not gay. In fact, he was just flirting with Cordelia Derby for an hour.”
“Cordelia what?”
“Derby? New editor at The Set? I wanted to talk to her myself, but she’s been surrounded all night.” Her lips are moving too fast, her face a little blurry. “See, she and Christian were totally clicking, then that girl came over and scared her off—that one. Sitting on his lap.”
“So he’s not gay?”
“Not at all! By the way, I’m April—”
“I’m gonna kick that dickhead’s ass!”
I’m already headed for her, but Phillip grabs my arm. “Wait, M.C.”
“I fucking mean it. Who the fuck does he think he is?”
“Well,” says Pink Dress, backing up, “maybe we can catch up later?”
“If you do that,” says Phillip, “You’ll make everything worse. You’re trashed, and so is Annalise, and I don’t think now is the best time—”
“I don’t care what you think!” I pull my arm away. I take a step, then stop for a second, dizzy.
It might have been six shots. Or seven. It doesn’t matter, I think. I can still whup that pussy.
I take a step and there’s a loud crash and a bunch of yelling. Did I make that happen?
“Get off me!” says a voice.
I look where everyone else is looking. In the corner of the tent, a big-ass security guard has his grip on some dude in a hoodie, twisting his arm behind his back. “Let go of me,” says the kid.
“Stop struggling or I’ll hurt you,” says Security Guard. He’s totally jacked-up, upper arms the size of small children.
“You’re hurting me already. Let go of my arm!”
“You shoulda followed directions,” barks ’Roid Head. The kid tries to get away, but the guard pulls him in a lock.
Next to him, two other guards watch, arms crossed.
“What directions?” says the kid, face still hidden by the hood. “You can hardly put together a full sentence!”
With his free hand, ’Roid Head grips the kid by the back of his hoodie and lifts him, the veins on the guard’s neck throbbing with the effort.
The band has gone quiet and so has the party. Everyone is watching like they’d hired these goons to put on a show. I look for Annalise, but she’s gone. A new girl has taken her place next to Ass-Munch. I squint, wondering if I imagined it all. Maybe it wasn’t Annalise. Maybe it was this little girl with blue shoes the whole time.
Fuck that. It was Annalise. Sitting in his lap.
Back in steroid corner, one of the other guards has stepped in. “Maybe you should back off, J.J.,” he says, real low and weak. “You look like a bully, y’know?”
’Roid Head whips around, the kid going with him. “What did you say to me, you little bitch?”
No time for the little guard to answer. Another voice, this one roaring. “What the fuck are you doing?”
Everything freezes. Heads turn, the crowd parting.
Mr. Hoff, feet planted, stands near the stage. He looks crazy pissed.
“This guy tried to sneak in, Mr. Hoff!” says ’Roid Head. “He pulled up in a taxi, was talking all this nonsense—”
“Let. Go. Of. Him.” This time, Mr. Hoff doesn’t need to be loud. “And get the fuck off my property.”
’Roid loosens his grip, the kid stumbling forward. ’Roid backs up, holding his meaty hands open in front of him.
The hooded kid does not even look at him.
“Come here, son,” says Mr. Hoff, then reaches up for the lead singer’s mike.
Old Man Leather Ass hands it over before Hoff’s arm is outstretched.
The kid straightens himself and sighs. Then he walks over, real slow, like no one is watching. Like he has all the time in the world.
He stands next to Hoff, tapping his old-school Converse.
“Ladies and gentleman,” Hoff says into the mike. “I would like to introduce a true visionary.” He puts an arm around the kid’s shoulders, his face full of pride. Mr. Hoff’s never looked at me like that. I mean, he hardly looks at me at all. “The future of interactive media and our guest of honor, Mr. Todd Evergreen.”
A few surprised claps, then a shitload of them.
Mr. Hoff hands him the mike. “Say something, kiddo.”
With the other hand, the kid pulls down his hood. It is so quiet you could hear dust particles falling.
He clears his throat. “So, this is the Hamptons.”