2. The Cursed Margarita

two

Violet

Iflick my wrist, watching as my half-empty margarita creates a whirlpool, tilting up the sides of my glass and slowly absorbing the salt-lined rim. I squint at the clock on the wall.

9:45.

Unsurprisingly, forty-five minutes have passed since Mallory was supposed to arrive at Monsey's to sign papers. As if on cue, finally, the bar's large oak door swings open, and her familiar slender figure steps through the frame.

"Sorry, the group session ran late," Mallory says, before dropping a thick stack of papers onto the center of the table. She's still in her dance clothes: a pair of magenta leggings and a matching cropped long-sleeve. Her warm amber hair is pulled back into a sleek ponytail. It's the only warm thing about her. "I'm going to go get a drink first, do you need another?" Her tight, nasally voice sucks all the air out of the room, and not in a flattering way.

I take a deep breath. "No, but thanks."

"Okay then."

Mallory sashays up to the bar. Her slim hips move from one side to the other, as she intentionally drags each sway out farther than it would naturally go. She pulls a sheer pink tube from her pocket and applies a thick, glossy coat over her lips. The woman loves putting on a show.

It was something I used to love about her, watching everyone's eyes light up when she walked in the room, like she was the star of the show they called life. And what I loved even more was watching her glow as she basked in that attention. Mallory is stunning. Her pale skin is chiseled perfectly around her face, and her shiny red hair causes everyone's heads to turn, no matter where she is. I knew everyone stared. I also knew everyone wished they had a chance with her. I just didn't realize then that they actually did.

But it's been almost a year since I found those graphic texts, and now that the divorce papers are finally being signed, I'll be able to put it all behind me.

All twelve years.

Ruthie is going to be stoked. My sister has been waiting for this day for just about as long as we've been together.

Mallory returns to the table with another margarita and a glass of merlot.

"I figured you could use it."

She slides the drink across the table to me. I want to ignore the gesture, but I just can't bring myself to be so petty.

"Thank you," I say, though I push the drink to the side. I don't like the idea of hurting someone's feelings, even though Mallory completely annihilated mine. Sometimes, I wish I could do it, give her a taste of her own medicine. But every time the thought pops into my head, I get a bitter flavor in my mouth, and my throat grows dry. So, no matter how impatient I'm getting, I'm going to be nice.

"Are you ready?" I ask. It was the first thing to pop into my head that isn't outwardly rude, and it's a really stupid question. There are very few people in this world who are "ready" to end a relationship with their high school sweetheart.

But my jaw practically drops when Mallory picks up the pen, scrawls her signature perfectly on the thick black line, then holds it out in my direction.

"I have plans," she says.

I'm not going to lie. I expected more… emotion. More crying, some reminiscing, maybe. "Remember when"s and "I'll miss you"s. I mean, Mallory is quite literally a theatre kid, now all grown up. She lives for drama and angst. She loves to make things harder than they need to be. But I guess this particular drama has been a long time coming.

I figured the bar would be closing by the time we left, after all the empty glasses and smudged mascara.

But I might actually have time to stick around now, listen to some karaoke. Maybe play the divorce card and get a couple drinks. It's been a year, sure, and though I'm completely ready for it to be over, I haven't actually moved on.

By moved on, I mean had sex.

Not because I haven't wanted to. It's just, when you spend your entire adulthood with the same person, you forget how to have a one-night stand. But tonight, I'm ready. I even wore my nicest pair of black lacy underwear which are currently climbing into my ass. It feels weird to be waiting for this to be over so I can get laid, but to be fair, it's been a long time.

I tilt my head back, letting the rest of my drink slide down my throat, before I take the pen and sign my name on the second black line. The signature doesn't look half as nice as hers.

"Is that it then?" Mallory asks, tightening her ponytail.

I nod. "I guess so."

She unscrews the lid of her insulated tumbler and pours her leftover glass of wine inside before putting the lid back on.

"I'll drop these off at the courthouse in the morning," she says, scooping the large stack of papers into her arms. "I'll see you around, Violet."

And just as she had sauntered into the bar, Mallory saunters out of it.

"Ten o'clock karaoke begins in two minutes!" a woman calls through the speakers. "Sign-ups are almost full!"

I look down resentfully at the margarita Mallory bought for me, even though it's a completely innocent bystander. Drinking it will mean absolutely nothing, especially now that she's gone, but for some reason, it will feel like she's won. Won at what? I have no fucking clue. But I am notdrinking this damn margarita.

I pick it up, the thick glass cold between my fingers. But as I lift it off the wooden table, I see something small and cylindrical. Light pink and expensive.

It's Mallory's lip gloss. Her favorite lip gloss, actually. She doesn't go anywhere without it.

Cursed margarita in one hand, Mallory's forty-dollar tube of lip gloss in the other, I shuffle to the door, hoping to catch her attention before she pulls away. The wooden door is thick and heavy, and it takes a hefty shove to push it open.

"Mallory, wait I—"

But just as I step outside, I bump into something with just enough force to send the tube of lip gloss, and some of the margarita, flying. The lip gloss bounces off the concrete once, then barrels toward the storm drain. The margarita, however, just barely tips over the edge of the glass, splashing onto the front of a beautiful emerald green dress.

"Shit!" I take a step back and, just then, watch Mallory's car speed off into the distance. My eyes slowly focus on the woman in front of me. "I'm really sorry I—"

"Wasn't paying attention?" the woman asks, her eyebrows furrowed as she wipes the slush off the front of her dress. "Was running outside of a bar with a full-to-the-brim margarita in your hands?"

I smile sheepishly, scratching the side of my neck.

"Yup! That's the one. I'm really sorry," I say again. The woman's expression doesn't shift. In fact, I think there might just be the beginnings of a frown tugging on the corners of her mouth. Fuck. "I can uh—" I stumble over my words, trying to find a way to diffuse the situation. I hold out the cold cup still in my hands. "Do you want it?"

I could be imagining it, but I think the ghost of a smile flickers across her face.

"You mean the drink you just spilled all over me?" she asks, her eyebrow arched in a dissatisfied manner. "No thanks."

"Right," I say through a half-laugh half-please-god-help-me-wince. I clear my throat. "Well, what if I buy you a new one? Unspilled guarantee?"

Honestly, I was really hoping to be the one getting a free drink tonight. But I will do just about anything to get this woman to stop looking at me like I've just completely ruined her night. I hold my breath, waiting for her to answer. She sighs.

"Alright," she says. "One drink."

As the woman orders her Vodka Cranberry (a boring choice if you ask me), I begin to notice all of the things I hadn't had time to notice when she had been frowning at me. The slope of her nose, the rosy tint to her cheeks. A small black mascara smudge just below her eye. The frizzy blonde waves down the back of her slightly-stained sleeveless dress. But the stain isn't from the margarita. It's dry, a small dark splotch embedded permanently into the fabric. And her shoes.

How am I just now noticing her shoes? Fuzzy, hammerhead sharks wrap around her feet in a comical contrast to the elegance of her outfit. In the short moment of panic about what an absolute mess I had made, I hadn't considered that maybe this woman was already a bit of a mess all on her own.

"Is there a reason you're staring at me, or should I be worried you're having a stroke?" The woman quirks an eyebrow, leaning against the bar. She redirects her gaze to the bartender.

Actually, there is a very good reason I am staring at her, and it isn't just the ocean creatures attached to her feet. Call it cliché, but this woman may be one of the most beautiful people I have seen in my entire life. With her dark brown eyes and coral lips, she's pretty in a completely natural, truly messy kind of way. And despite her strange choice of footwear, this woman knows what she's doing. That dress hugs her body like she was the inspiration behind it. The cutout at her waist, the curve of her hips, every inch of her silhouette is perfectly captured in a wave of silky green. And it occurs to me, at this moment, there are so many more fuckable people on this planet than Mallory Freaking Sinclair.

And tonight, I am going to prove it.

I shrug, giving her a sly smirk. "Just waiting for you to say thank you," I say, letting my chin rest in the divot of my hand.

She rolls her eyes. "Thank you?" she scoffs.

"Yes, thank you. It's a phrase people use when they want to express gratitude. Might be foreign to you, but it's pretty custom here."

Her jaw drops, those delightful pretty lips parting in true surprise. I can't help but break into laughter.

"I'm sorry," I say, trying not to choke on air as I continue to laugh. "I'm just fucking with you."

The woman blushes, shooting me what I can only hope is a falsely irritated glare. The dark red glass clicks against the polished wood as the bartender sets her drink down and gives her a singular nod. She lifts it, letting the cup clink against the rim of the margarita I had no intention of drinking. But now, I'm starting to think maybe it wasn't cursed at all. I smile, sliding the stem of it between my fingers before lifting it to my lips.

"Thanks," she says, raising her eyebrows and lowering her tone to ensure I catch that her gratitude is pure sarcasm. Mine, however, is not.

Thank you, Mallory.

"Well," I say, in an equally sarcastic tone. "When you put a damsel in distress, sometimes you gotta fix it with a Vodka Cranberry."

The woman tries to stifle her laugh, but I can see her lips fighting to break into a smile.

"A damsel in distress?"

"I mean—" I gesture to the sharks attached to her feet. "If the slipper fits."

I hold my breath, waiting to see if she bites. Bites the flirting bit or bites my head off. Either one could happen. Her tongue pokes the inside of her lower lip, and I think, in my completely biased opinion, that she just might be trying to hide another smile. She doesn't say anything, so I continue.

"Maybe," I say, gesturing to her now. "Maybe more of an Ice Princess than a damsel."

Now, the woman scowls. "What's that supposed to mean?"

She's so cute that I don't even care.

"Definitely an Ice Princess. With your whole ‘I clearly hate people and want to be left alone' thing."

"Do you have a name, or do you just go around giving other people fake ones?" She purses her lips, like she's proud of that comeback. I'll let her have it.

"Violet," I say, sticking out my hand. The woman looks down at it, almost like she's analyzing it before she takes it into hers. Her palm is soft and just a little bit clammy in contrast to my dry, calloused skin.

"Cam."

Cam.

I wonder what that's short for. Camille? Camilla? Probably something like that, but I can't say it matters too much. I don't need to know her full legal name to have her screaming mine.

Heat rushes to my cheeks at the thought, but I stay composed enough to investigate if she's thinking the same.

"So what brings you here, Cam?" I ask, gesturing to the crowded bar. "Alcohol? Friends? A man you met online whose photo features a dead animal?"

Cam bites her lip to hold back a laugh, but just a drop of her drink slips out of the corner of her mouth in the process. I reach my hand up and swipe the red liquid away with my thumb. Her eyes lock onto mine for a moment, before darting down to my chest. She swallows, her bottom lip curling back between her teeth. Heat grows between my thighs as she blushes.

"Doesn't everyone come to the bar for alcohol?" she asks. I shrug.

"Not that guy." I point to the man on the karaoke stage who's belting out a rather pitchy version of The Beatles' "Don't Let Me Down." "He's here to perform."

Another smile breaks across Cam's face as she takes another sip of her drink.

"Okay, fair," she says, her eyebrows lifting. "But my friends aren't coming, and there's no animal-murdering Tinder date. I just…"

Her eyes travel down my body, and her breath hitches as they lock onto my chest again.

"You just?"

Cam nods, her eyes flicking up to me. If I thought she was blushing before, she's sure as hell flustered now. A red tint grows over her cheeks, not unlike the color of her drink.

"I have to go to the bathroom," she says, standing up abruptly. She looks at me through her thick brown lashes, before quickly walking away.

My fingers tap against the thick margarita glass as I watch the man on stage finish his rather drunken performance. Then, my stomach drops.

Shit.Was that a move?

I haven't actually done this before, pick up a girl at a bar. Is going to the bathroom a euphemism? Was I supposed to follow her, or is it just going to lead to some really awkward silence?

The Beatles Man stumbles off the stage and approaches me.

"Heyyy pretty lady," he slurs, his eyebrows wiggling.

Fuck it.

The roof of my mouth freezes for a moment as I suck down the rest of the margarita and slam a few one-dollar bills onto the bar as I make my way to the bathroom.

When I push open the swinging door, I catch Cam staring at herself in the mirror, seemingly attempting to fix her hair and makeup. Which makes no sense if I was supposed to follow her, because she would've known I'd just mess it up again. Still, I have to at least try to pretend I know what I'm doing.

"Enjoying the view?" I tease. Cam's cheeks flush.

"More like cringing," she says, taking a wet wad of toilet paper to the mascara smudge. I step in front of her and cup her delicate face in my hands. Then, I swipe the smudge gently with the pad of my thumb. Cam's breath hitches, and I shake my head, clicking my tongue disappointedly.

2"Can't have the Ice Princess talking about herself that way now, can I?"

Damn. I've still got it. Cam's throat bobs as she swallows, those full lips parting ever so slightly, but no words come out.

"Can I?" I repeat.

Her stare darts from my eyes to my lips, her eyes darkening. Long, soft fingers snake around my waist, sending a shiver down my spine. She pulls my pelvis into hers.

"Do you ever shut up?" she asks, her head tilted innocently. Then, her chin lifts up, her lips tracing mine to close the space between us. Our positions shift, as she guides my back against the sink. I reach out blindly, twisting the lock on the door until I hear the satisfying click, then let my hands venture back to her body.

My fingers trace up her thighs, her skin soft and supple. They glide under the curve of her ass, squeezing it not too gently in appreciation.

I think Cam was the blueprint for every sculpture ever crafted of a mythical goddess.

Her hot breath melts into my neck as she sucks the skin softly, drawing a quiet but not meaningless moan out of me. She places a single finger against the skin of my stomach, then drags it upward slowly and delicately. She is barely touching me, and I swear she can feel how wet I am through my jeans. When her finger reaches my bra, she carefully outlines that too, teasing me with her soft fingertips.

"Fuck," I mutter, letting my hands journey to the front of her panties. I hook a finger on the fabric, waiting for a consenting nod before I slip my hand inside.

It probably shouldn't, but my ego boosts just a smidge when I feel that Cam is just as wet as I am. She's practically dripping, and my fingers find their spot just in the center of the slick mess I helped her create. Cam lets out an angelic moan, a sound I now feel I'll never be able to go without. She grips the back of my neck, pressing herself further into me.

"Just like that. Good girl," I mumble during the short moment in which my lips aren't attached to her neck. My fingers glide against her clit, curl my knuckles on the way back, then carefully repeat. Cam's body jolts against mine as she practically collapses into me, one hand still gripping my neck as the other tugs at my hair. It's a great thing I've never been tender-headed.

"Fuck," she whines, and I know that's my sign to keep going. My thumb dances over her clit, a hot pulse emulating in my core as she pushes her thigh between mine. I groan, picking up the pace and moving my fingers to—*

"Is anyone in there?!" a woman's sharp voice calls out, followed by incessant, eardrum-shattering knocking.

Cam's eyebrows shoot up, her face flushing a bright, hot red. She pulls back, my fingers begrudgingly slipping out of her completely soaked underwear.

The knocking continues. "Hello?!"

I let out a short, uncomfortable laugh. This is still salvageable, right? I mean, we can finish this elsewhere. I look back at Cam, ready to suggest we get out of here. Her wide eyes are still glued to the door, her lashes rapidly fluttering.

"Hey, do you—"

But before I can finish my sentence, Cam-Camille-Camilla twists the silver lock, throws open the door, and sprints out of the bar as fast as someone in fleece slippers has ever run before.

I didn't even get a chance to pull down my shirt. The woman on the other side of the door stares at me with wide eyes and a slack jaw. I quickly tug it down and give her a sheepish smile.

I guess the margarita was cursed after all.