Chelsea’s twin brother, Max, is already off bro-ing it up with AK by the bar, trying their luck with a pair of Swedish-looking blondes. They dance and whirl, swallowed up into the tight press of sweaty bodies. She grabs Mel and Chelsea and heads for the dance floor, her hips already moving to the thunder of bass. “And you need to loosen up!” Elise shimmies, blond hair flying out around her bare shoulders. I shiver at the touch and playfully shove her away. “Bottoms up, babe.” Elise grins, but instead of shaking the salt out on her hand, she sprinkles it on my neck, leaning in to lick up along my collarbone before downing the shot. She ignores him, turning to me with a wicked smile. “Easy, girl,” Tate says, and laughs to Elise, one arm slung around my shoulder. Melanie screws her face up, gagging Max and AK pump the air and howl, but Elise is already reaching for another, plain tequila this time, with a side of salt and lime. “Spring break!” The group whoops, and then I’m gulping down the drink, shuddering at the sickly bittersweet taste and the familiar burn that snakes down my throat. “Aruba, bitches!” Elise raises her shot in a toast, lights splintering off the glass, golden in her hair. It’s our first night on the island, and the music is almost too loud for me to think-some European dance-pop thing that shakes the crowded beach club, making the glasses quiver and the blood vibrate in my chest. The dreadlocked waiter pours a row of something lurid, neon blue. We yell it together, slamming our hands on the sticky wooden table.
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