“See him?” Lydie cut into my thoughts, leaning over me. “That beefcake is totally checking me out.”
She winked and waved at the guy, and he grinned back at her.
“Ew. Are you joking?” I asked.
“Hell no. Look at those muscles!”
“Lydie, he’s like fifty.”
“Thirty at most. And who cares, so long as he takes care of himself?”
I laughed and eyed up the guy. He probably was in his mid-thirties and wore expensive-looking madras shorts and an expensive-looking white Oxford shirt with an expensive-looking watch, all of which I knew Lydie absolutely had noticed before she saw his muscles. He was tanned and preppy and good looking in a really conventional way, and I could totally see him doing Jaeger bombs with his bros or possibly killing a hooker by mistake. The longer I looked at him, the more sure I was that he had killed at least one hooker in his lifetime.
The Outer Banks were full of guys like him, especially in the clubs and restaurants my dad owned. They were all the same, money managers and investment bankers and hedge-fund assholes all trying to get blackout drunk and impregnate the first thing they could find.
Of course, once they got their rocks off, they disappeared the next morning. Which was fine, if you were into that. And Lydie was, or at least she pretended she was. Truthfully, I hadn’t seen her go home with very many guys at the end of the night. She was more bark than bite.
Me though, I was totally disgusted by the whole thing. It felt like such a weird transaction; plus, I’d never met a guy I was into enough to want to risk getting choked to death or something by a psycho I’d just met. Those hedge-fund assholes cared more about coming on your back than they did about making you feel good.
Not like I had a lot of experience, mind you, but I’d noticed a thing or two in my time.
“Oh, and he has a friend,” Lydie said in a singsong voice in my ear.
“No way, Lydie.”
“Come on. They’re cute and clearly rich.”
“Not my type. Not even close.”
She made a face. “What is your type, anyway? Or do you just bang your calculator every night?”
I laughed, shaking my head. It was the summer before our senior year and Lydie was always making fun of me for putting studying and classwork ahead of everything else. Especially ahead of sex.
“Seriously, Claire, when are you going to put out? It’s more than time.”
“I’ll ‘put out’ eventually. Just not with those guys.” I made a face at her choice of words.
“Come on! We have to pop that cherry before you end up a spinster.”
“I don’t mind knitting, though.”
“Oh sure, it’s all knitting and book groups until you die of a heart attack alone in your house and thirty cats eat your body.” She paused to sip her drink. “You do not want to be remembered as the dead cat lady.”
“Gross. I don’t even like cats.”
“It doesn’t matter; cats are attracted to virginity. You’ll end up with hundreds!”
I laughed and shook my head as Lydie began to wave at the two prep school douches. They came over and Lydie got the bouncer to let them through into the VIP. I sighed, annoyed that she was already ruining our night, and took another sip of my champagne. I had looked forward to a night out with just her and me, but she clearly had other intentions when she had insisted we go to my dad’s club.
“Claire,” Lydie said, “this is Mike. And I didn’t get this one’s name.” She giggled and jabbed a finger into the original guy’s chest.
“I’m Tommy,” he said, smiling at me.
“Oh, Tommy. Guys, this is Claire. I promise she’s more fun than she looks.”
I rolled my eyes at her as Tommy held his hand out. I shook it, and he suddenly brought it up to his lips, kissing my knuckles.
Shivers of disgust ran down my spine. He basically left a snail trail of saliva on my skin, totally violating my personal space. It was a harmless move, but it was totally gross and unasked for. He was the absolute opposite of charming. He radiated smarm and self-importance, and really he just made me more depressed than anything else.
I wasn’t usually such a party pooper, but I was in a particularly bad mood. The truth was, I didn’t want to be back in the Outer Banks. I didn’t exactly get along with my insanely controlling father, let alone want to spend my summer with the upper-crust assholes he was always bringing around.
But three nights ago, I got a call late in the afternoon. It turned out that Dad had eloped with his new girlfriend, this ex-model named Lucille. I didn’t know much about her, aside from the really basic things Dad had told me over the phone.