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“I don’t like them, but I’m not leaving them here with a bunch of strange guys?”

It takes me too long to realize she’s not just complaining—she’s serious. She’s actually going to leave.

No. She can’t. I told her the reason she was here. Did she forget? She doesn’t get to walk away from this.

“You’re not going,” I say with as much finality as I can muster. “You’re fine.”

Alyssa groans. Nearly puts her hands into her eyes before remembering her makeup, or what’s left of it. We’re both overheating. My throat hurts from raising my voice to be heard. Someone dances too close, then sees us and apologizes and stumbles away.

“But—that guy,” Alyssa says. “What’s his name. Maggie’s boyfriend. Frankie?”

Since when is she on a nickname basis with the model? I don’t know why I’m humoring this conversation. We need to get back to the booth. “What about him.”

“Apparently he has a thing for trans girls. And he’s really, really been trying to get me to drink all night. Maggie thinks he knows. I don’t like it. I want to go home.”

I say, “Oh my god, he’s not going to do anything. Don’t be a bitch about it.”

Alyssa stares at me.

I bite hard on the inside of my cheek.

I heard it, too. I knew how it sounded the moment it came out of my mouth. It’s like the producer said: I, of all people, should know better. Should think for a goddamn second before I decide to talk about when a girl is or isn’t in danger.

But I don’t shake my head or try to backtrack. I don’t apologize. I’ve never apologized for anything in my life, and I’m not about to start now.

Alyssa’s eyes go glassy, and tears gather across her lashes. A muscle in her neck constricts like she’s swallowing hard.

“Whatever,” she says with a sniffle. “Text me when you get home so I know you’re not dead.”

And before I can grab her and drag her back, reflexes dulled by too much alcohol, she’s disappearing down the narrow stairs and into the belly of the nightclub, gone.

Shit.

Shit.

Felicity catches me by the hand when I come back to the booth alone. Their eyes are blown and worried. I have nothing to tell them.

How dare she. How dare she do this. What is wrong with her?

The club closes at three. It’s two thirty. I don’t have much time left. Franco’s gotten up to pay, Magnolia’s lazily staring out over the crowd, and we have to do this now. Felicity stands guard at the entrance to the booth.

I pull the neckline of my dress over my shoulder and slide up close to Daniel in the booth. Hip to hip and thigh to thigh.

“Danny?” I murmur at the edge of his ear.

His face flushes. He’s fucked up—he’s gone. “Yeah?”

“When did my mom give you the penthouse card?”

“Oh. A few days ago.” He fumbles his wallet out again, shows me, smiles triumphantly. “Look at me. Being fancy and important.”

“So important,” I repeat with a smile. “Look—is there any chance I could borrow it for a day or two?”

That gets a confused nose wrinkle from him. “What are you going to do?”

I say, “I’m going to get you something. For our deal.”

He isn’t sure. He chews on the inside of his lip. But when I reach into his hand, gently pry the key card from his wallet, and hold it up to show him that I’ve taken it, he doesn’t snatch it back.