“Brazil just gives me the creeps. The last time I was here with Shep, he was being all flirty.”
“Well, I’ll go in with you. If he so much as winks at you, I’ll stab him in the eye with my new heels, okay?”
America smiled and hugged me. “Thanks, Abby!”
We walked to the back of the building, and America took a deep breath before knocking on the door. We waited, but no one came.
“I guess he’s not here?” I asked.
“He’s here,” she said, irritated. She banged on the wood with the side of her fist and then the door swung open.
“HAPPY BIRTHDAY!” the crowd inside yelled.
The ceiling was pink and black bubbles, every inch covered by helium balloons with long silver strings hanging down in the faces of the guests. The crowd separated, and Travis walked approached me with a broad smile, touching each side of my face and kissing my forehead.
“Happy birthday, Pigeon.”
“It’s not ’til tomorrow,” I said. Still in shock, I tried smiling at everyone around us.
Travis shrugged. “Well, since you were tipped off, we had to make some last minute changes to surprise you. Surprised?”
“Very!” I said as Finch hugged me.
“Happy birthday, baby!” Finch said, kissing my lips.
America nudged me with her elbow. “Good thing I got you to run errands with me today or you would have shown up looking like ass!”
“You look great,” Travis said, scanning my dress.
Brazil hugged me, pressing his cheek to mine. “And I hope you know America’s Brazil is Creepy story was just a line to get you in here.”
I looked at America and she laughed. “It worked, didn’t it?”
Once everyone took turns hugging me and wishing me a happy birthday, I leaned into America’s ear. “Where’s Parker?”
“He’ll be here later,” she whispered. “Shepley couldn’t get him on the phone to let him know until this afternoon.”
Brazil cranked up the volume on the stereo, and everyone screamed. “Come here, Abby!” he said, walking to the kitchen. He lined up shot glasses along the counter and pulled a bottle of tequila from the bar. “Happy birthday from the football team, baby girl,” he smiled, pouring each shot glass full of Patrón. “This is the way we do birthdays: You turn nineteen, you have nineteen shots. You can drink ’em or give ’em away, but the more you drink, the more of these you get,” he said, fanning out a handful of twenties.
“Oh my God!” I squealed.
“Drink ’em up, Pidge!” Travis said.
I looked to Bra
zil, suspicious. “I get a twenty for every shot I drink?”
“That’s right, lightweight. Gauging by the size of you, I’m going to say we’ll get away with losing sixty bucks by the end of the night.”
“Think again, Brazil,” I said, grabbing the first shot glass, rolling it across my lip, tipping my head back to empty the glass and then rolling it the rest of the way, dropping it into my other hand.
“Holy shit!” Travis exclaimed.
“This is really a waste, Brazil.” I said, wiping the corners of my mouth. “You shoot Cuervo, not Patrón.”
The smug smile on Brazil’s face faded, and he shook his head and shrugged. “Get after it, then. I’ve got the wallets of twelve football players that say you can’t finish ten.”
I narrowed my eyes. “Double or nothing says I can drink fifteen.”