London Falling. Chanel Cleeton

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      I had to laugh at that one. These were the moments when I felt the furthest away from my unremarkable life back in South Carolina.

      “Of course it is.”

      * * *

      ONE OF THE benefits of my not-so-glamorous summer job in retail was the employee discount. At a school like the International School, being on scholarship made it tough, if not impossible, to keep up with everyone else. My bags weren’t Gucci or Prada; my shoes weren’t Jimmy Choo or Giuseppe Zanotti. But thanks to my discount, I had a whole new wardrobe of cute dresses. I would never look like I’d walked off the runway like Fleur, but it was good enough for me.

      We were in full-on pre-gaming mode—loud house music blared through Fleur’s computer speakers. I was more of a hip-hop fan, but I wasn’t complaining. We’d gotten into this habit last year—pre-gaming in our room before a night out. Having Mya here as a roommate made it so much better. We traded hair and makeup tips, shared outfits, and did some dancing and drinking while we got ready.

      I’d missed them desperately these past few months.

      “You guys all set?” Fleur asked, a wide smile on her face.

      This summer had been good for her. She seemed lighter, happier. Last year had been rough. Her boyfriend, Costa, had dumped her before the start of the semester for another girl at the International School, but then continued to fool around with Fleur, making her believe he really cared. I hadn’t understood why she was so connected to him until she’d told me about her accidental pregnancy—and subsequent miscarriage. It had all come crashing down around her at the end of last year when Fleur had learned how fickle he really was, a devastating loss that had pushed her into a drug overdose. It had been a scary wake-up call for all of us, but one Fleur had seemed to need.

      The Fleur standing in front of me was laughing and smiling again, some of the sadness erased from her. She finally seemed to be over Costa. Now I just needed to find her a nice guy—the right guy. Given how things had ended last semester, with him bringing her flowers in the hospital, I had high hopes for my friend George.

      I grabbed my purse off the bed, weaving slightly as I walked. A summer of not drinking was catching up with me, and my normally low alcohol tolerance seemed even lower than usual.

      I followed Mya and Fleur out of the room, excitement and anticipation filling me.

      I loved nights like this—unplanned, full of possibilities. For me, London was one big adventure—you never knew what to expect or what the night might bring. London was like a drug—an incredible high you never wanted to come off of. It made you feel like you could do anything, be anyone. You could reinvent yourself in a city like this.

      This time last year I’d been nervous and unsure of myself. The International School had been a glamorous, intimidating place that made me feel like an impostor, playing dress-up and trying to fit in. Now I belonged.

      “Going somewhere?” a voice called out.

      I looked up and my gaze instantly connected with Samir’s.

      Samir

      I DIDN’T KNOW where to look first.

      In the cafeteria I’d been afraid to sneak more than a glance at her, sure that if I did, the whole school would see what I wanted—who I wanted. But she’d left so quickly—fled when Fleur dropped her little bombshell—and I’d lost my chance. I wasn’t going to make the same mistake again. This time I looked my fill.

      Her brown hair seemed longer than it had been in May. It fell past her shoulders, the ends just barely grazing the top of her tits. I swallowed, my mouth suddenly drier than the Sahara. Her dress, some sort of strappy thing, left little to the imagination—and I had a pretty vivid imagination and memory—and showed off her tanned, tight little body. It ended just under her curvy ass, exposing plenty of leg.

      For a moment I couldn’t speak. I couldn’t look her in the eye. I was two steps away from maneuvering Maggie up against the wall and getting under that dress, audience or not.

      “Girls’ night,” Fleur answered, oblivious to the tenuous grip I kept on my sanity.

      I looked away from Maggie, my gaze traveling over the three of them. They were all dressed to kill tonight. Fleur smirked back at me. Mya’s eyes narrowed slightly, and for one awful moment, I wondered if she’d seen my reaction. Maggie still wouldn’t look at me.

      “Where are you headed?” I asked Fleur, trying to keep my voice casual. I hated the tension running through my body, the possessiveness flooding me. It was a new experience, one that wasn’t entirely welcome.

      “That new club, Air.”

      Awesome. It was exactly the kind of place Fleur would choose. It would likely be full of B-list actors and athletes and flashy new-money. In that dress, they’d be all over Maggie.

      No way.

      I couldn’t help it. I had to know if she hated me. I turned my attention away from Fleur, my gaze lingering over Maggie’s body, before reaching her eyes.

      She flinched and looked back down at the floor.

      I needed to explain to her about Layla. If she wasn’t going to give me a chance to get close to her, I would take it.

      “I’ll come with you guys.”

      CHAPTER THREE

      Maggie

      I WISHED HE would stop looking at me.

      Actually, I wished he would go home. Or never have come out with us at all. I still didn’t know how he’d managed it. One minute we were walking down the stairs, the next he was helping me into a cab, his hands grazing my bare shoulders.

      I blamed Fleur. Besides being her cousin, he was also one of her closest friends, and she never did a good job of telling him no. Of course, a lot of girls seemed to have that problem where Samir was concerned—myself included.

      I moved my hips to the music, tossing my head back. I wanted to lose myself in the beat, the freedom of it. For the first time in months, I felt like I belonged. I felt more like myself here in this nightclub in London than I ever had in a lifetime in South Carolina.

      Summer had been awkward. My life back home was beginning to feel a lot like a shirt that was a size too small. I tried to make it work, tried to fit in. But there was a part of me that was always here, in London, wishing I could get back to the life I left behind. Wishing I could get back to the person I actually liked to be, versus the shell of me I’d been in my hometown.

      I’d missed this, missed feeling like I was a part of life, rather than like it was just happening to me. I missed the possibilities.

      This place was a prime example. Clubs like Air didn’t exist in my hometown, with its family restaurants and only a couple of stoplights.

      Here, waitresses served canisters of oxygen and fancy cocktails. Thanks to Samir, we were in the club’s VIP section, girls dancing on the tables around us, people mixing magnums of champagne with oxygen. It was a crazy, surreal experience that felt like something out of a movie and yet somehow—thanks to my scholarship and, indirectly, my Harvard СКАЧАТЬ