Five Parties With My Worst Enemy Read online

  Five Parties With My Worst Enemy

  Elle Sharpe

  Copyright © 2020 by Elle Sharpe

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used fictitiously, and any resemblances to actual persons, living or dead, or business establishments, organizations or locales is completely coincidental.

  Contents

  Part I

  Norah

  Ronan

  Norah

  Ronan

  Part II

  Ronan

  Norah

  Ronan

  Norah

  Ronan

  Part III

  Norah

  Ronan

  Norah

  Ronan

  Norah

  Ronan

  Norah

  Ronan

  Norah

  Part IV

  Ronan

  Norah

  Ronan

  Norah

  Ronan

  Norah

  Ronan

  Part V

  Norah

  Ronan

  Norah

  Ronan

  Norah

  PART(Y) I

  COLLEGE GRADUATION PARTY

  Norah

  “Ugh, did you really have to invite him?”

  Ronan Baylor had just walked into my graduation party.

  Well, it wasn’t really my party. It was my best-friend-slash-roommate Jen’s party.

  I was not the party-hosting type. Jen was the sociable one. She picked the best dance music. She knew what type of alcohol any given group of people wanted to drink. She knew how to arrange even the smallest party space into different “zones,”—zones for the talkers, zones for the drunk-off-their-ass dancers, zones for the quiet people, zones for the people trying to hook up.

  Jen was also very good at smooth-talking. She’d talked me into offering up my room as the “hook-up zone,” a decision I already regretted. She was a smart cookie when it came to making friends and influencing people. It was all part of her long-term strategy to win at life.

  Like a wise old huckster, she took me under her arm.

  “Listen, Norah. Listen to these harsh words of truth that I am about to bestow upon you. You do not not invite the heir to the Baylor hotel fortune to your party. You invite him to every party. Because a party is not just a party, my friend. From now on, every party is—say it with me—a networking opportunity. This is how the world turns, baby. This is how deals are made.”

  She was sort of joking. She liked to hear herself talk. But on the other hand she wasn’t joking at all, because Ronan Baylor was in my apartment, despite the fact that he was a huge asshole.

  “Ah, but, consider this,” I countered. “What if your ‘networking opportunity’ is, literally, the worst human?”

  “Norah, Norah, Norah. You sweet summer child. It doesn’t matter what he’s like as a person. He is a repository of cold hard cash. If you want to be an entrepreneur, you need to become a cold hard cash extraction machine. You feel me?”

  “I feel nauseous.”

  She clapped me on the back.

  “You’ll get over it. Now help me mix this vodka with this White Claw.”

  Like a good assistant to the party host I obeyed her command, walking over to the kitchen area of our one room kitchen-living-room-dinner. Looking around, I guessed that only about a third of the guests had arrived so far, but already the apartment was starting to feel crowded. I didn’t mind putting the barrier of the kitchen cabinets between me and everyone else.

  While I mixed Jen’s disgusting combination of alcohols together I stole another glance at stupid Ronan Baylor. He really was the worst human. I could already see his stoney eyes flicking over every piece of rescued-from-the-sidewalk furniture and every quirky, college-girl decoration in our small, unimpressive living room. His gaze passed from the standard-issue white Christmas lights on the wall to the ragged couch, complete with novelty couch cushions in the shape of

  A toothbrush

  A giant pencil and

  A pastel-pink orca whale

  He took a few long, leisurely looks at some pictures of Jen and I acting like goofballs, which were taped up all over the walls. I cringed remembering how many dumb costumes and zany props had featured in those photoshoots. Why hadn’t we hidden our dork-decor away before the party? And why did Jen think that inviting the world’s biggest snob into our lunatics’ asylum was a good way to “network”?

  You could tell by looking at him that Ronan did not live in an apartment anything like this. He had great style in all things at all times. Tonight was no exception. Black button-down, classy-but-casual blazer, dark slacks, and richly-brown leather shoes. The sort of look that could come off as pretentious on someone else, but he made it look natural. He was the one who made you feel unnatural for wasting your one and only life wearing the cheap jeans, ill-fitting t-shirts and zip-up hoodies that you bought from Old Navy back in high school.

  It didn’t help that he had a great body and a great face to go with his excellent dress sense. Apparently tall-dark-handsome is a combination that really can happen in real life. Plus a good chin—square, but like a “refined” square, not caveman-square. Gray eyes like stormy skies. Just the right amount of neatly-shaved beard stubble. And that sort of subtle wave in his black hair, which made it curl slightly upwards from his face...

  But I digress. Ronan Baylor may have had great style and great looks and a great big bank account, but he had a bottom-of-the-barrel personality.

  For example: these were his first words when he sauntered over to me.

  “I bet you can’t wait to get out of this shithole.”

  See what I mean?

  I turned my eyes away from his mean, gorgeous face and focused on following Jen’s insane recipe for jungle juice.

  “Actually I like living here,” I informed him crisply as I emptied two bottles of Bacardi, half a bottle of vodka and a full bottle of Everclear into a giant bunch bowl.

  Ronan took a second to look at the bowl in horror before going back to insulting my home.

  “Really? Do you have a special thing for cracked linoleum? Or was it the puke-brown carpet that drew you in?”

  “I’ll have you know this is vintage, distressed linoleum,” I said, pointing to the gaping brown holes in the fake kitchen tiles. “And it took years for the carpet to build up this...what do you call it…”

  “Patina?” He offered.

  “Exactly.”

  Derision gleamed in his eyes.

  “You are something else, Green.”

  He looked back down at the punch bowl again.

  “Does this punch even have any chasers in it?” He asked.

  I checked Jen’s recipe.

  “Does peach schnapps count?”

  “And you’re planning to drink this monstrosity?”

  “Actually, I don’t drink. But anyway, don’t worry, Jen always has something for everyone. Would chilled white wine be more suited to your elevated tastes, young Master Baylor?”

  “I’m not drinking either,” he told me. I have to admit that surprised me slightly. “But I can’t say I object to you calling me ‘Master’”.

  “Gross, Baylor. Gross.”

  He grinned an obnoxious, 1000-watt smile at me. Somebody needed to punch him right in the mouth.

  “Hey, Ro-b
ro! What. Is. Uuuppppp!”

  The arrival of Ronan’s friend Chris saved me from the blinding light of those whitening strip commercial teeth.

  Although “friend” was a bit of an overstatement, in my opinion. Chris was more like Ronan’s lackey. He clearly only hung around Ronan because of his money and high status, which he then successfully leveraged into money and high status for himself. Chris had somehow convinced Ronan to give him a disgustingly well-paid internship at Baylor Hotels, despite the fact that he had no noticeable skills or talents. Unless you counted being loud.

  He jogged up and draped himself over Ronan’s shoulder.

  “Happy graduation, muth-a-fuck-as!” he shouted, as if he were addressing a full room of revelers instead of two people hanging out by the fridge.

  “Hey Chris,” Ronan replied with an indulgent smile.

  “Heeeey. Is this what I think it is?” Chris asked.

  “If you think it’s seven types of pure hard alcohol mixed together in a bowl, and nothing else except a few slices of orange,” I said, “then yes.”

  “Sweet.”

  He poured himself a worryingly large cup and downed it in one long glug.

  “All right!” he said, turning back to Ronan, “You ready to get turnt?”

  Ronan managed to look amused and disdainful at the same time.

  “You know I don’t drink with the undergrads.”

  Ah, of course.

  Ronan and Chris were big-shot MBA’s, while Jen and I—and most of the other people at the party—were lowly new graduates of the Bachelor's of Science in Business Administration program. The two of them only knew us because they’d been teaching assistants in our classes, but they certainly didn’t consider us their equals. I mean, Ronan didn’t consider anyone his equal, but definitely not the undergrads—a fact he’d made very clear over the last semester with his cutting “feedback” and harsh grades.

  We were babies, as far as he was concerned. While he already had real-world experience—by virtue of being handed a position in the family business—we had no real knowledge about the business world, or about life in general. We weren’t even worth getting drunk with.

  Well, hey, none of us can help how old we are, can we? And besides, Chris clearly thought we were worth drinking with. Then again, I couldn’t imagine Chris ever turning down the chance to drink with anyone.

  “Ah, come on man, don’t be a party pooper,” he groaned to Ronan. “Have at least one drink.”

  Chris started to pour Ronan some jungle juice. Ronan raised an eyebrow at him.

  “I think that’s about seven drinks,” he said, eying the cup warily. “I’m not planning to risk my liver on a party like this.”

  “A party like what, exactly?” I asked, acidly.

  “Look, no offense, but I’ve already been to two big events this week. I’ve reached my drinking quota. And I don’t think I’m missing much not getting ‘turnt’ at an undergrad party, surrounded by twenty-two-year-old fools dancing to shit music.”

  I glared. How dare he insult Jen’s music? Jen was a playlist goddess. True, you wouldn’t think French electro-pop plus early 2000s boy-band club remixes would necessarily be to everyone’s taste. But damn it, it got the people dancing. We were only two hours into the party now—barely even begun, according to Jen’s party timeline—and already the “dance zone” was popping.

  “Have you ever considered the idea that you’re just no fun?” I asked him.

  “Are you telling me you think this party is fun? You’re just hanging out in the kitchen, away from everyone else.”

  “I’m making the punch, dude.”

  “I think that punch is done.”

  I put down the empty bottle of peach schnapps that I was still holding, slamming it slightly on the counter, even though I hadn’t meant to.

  “You know what? You’re right. This punch is done. And it’s time for me to go enjoy myself at this totally fun party, away from all the not-fun people who just hang around in the kitchen making disparaging comments.”

  I walked the five feet from the kitchen to the dance zone—which was roughly the area in front of the TV—and started angry-dancing with Jen. Jen, who did seem to genuinely be having fun, and who was also a much better dancer than I was. After a few seconds of dancing next to her I loosened up, and remembered that dancing actually could be fun. At least with her. I glared back in the direction of the kitchen, to see whether Ronan could see how much fun I was having.

  He was just staring at me, drinking a glass of water, an amused smile curling at his lips.

  God, he was the spitting image of a massive prick.

  Ronan

  Norah Green was aggravating.

  She and I both knew that she didn’t want to be at this party any more than I did. And she couldn’t pretend to me that she was actually into vapid dance-pop. I happened to know that she was a classically trained double-major in music, so I found that very unlikely.

  But she’d never turned down an opportunity to argue with me in class, so why should she stop now?

  Still, if her way of arguing involved her swaying her hips back and forth like that, I wasn’t complaining. Such noticeably elegant hourglass curves were rare, and I didn’t mind the chance to see them in action.

  I reluctantly drew my eyes away to steal a glance at Chris, who was already pouring more of that death drink into his cup. I reached out and put a stern hand on his wrist, and shot him a warning look. He looked back at me sheepishly, but put the cup down.

  “Pace yourself,” I ordered him. He gave me a silent nod.

  Chris was one of those people who had a hard time controlling himself. Luckily for him, I was just the opposite. I could control myself, and him in the process. All in a night’s work.

  Jennifer Tran, our lovely hostess, came over and grabbed Chris by the arm.

  “Hey man, glad you could make it,” she said with a warm smile. “Come join the madness.”

  I allowed him to get drawn in, but I was planning to keep a careful eye on him throughout the evening. It was a little like being on babysitting duty. At least if Norah kept dancing like that the outing might be somewhat worth it.

  But I was right about Norah, as I was about most things. She wasn’t a party girl. Not really. After a few songs she gave up on the dancing, and went to the bathroom for an unnecessarily long time. When she came back out she started asking Jen if there was anything else that needed to be done, any chips she could pour into a bowl or something. Jen just rolled her eyes at her and told her to enjoy herself.

  In response to that suggestion, Norah wandered over to the falling-apart couch and started picking at its loose threads. I guessed that meant no more dancing Norah for me to watch.

  In the meantime Jen and Chris were starting to have a grand old time with each other. Jen was getting pretty grindy up against Chris’s jeans, and he was clearly thrilled. I hoped he would finally score with her tonight, and make this little field trip worthwhile for at least one of us.

  The kitchen started getting crowded. Undergraduates were swarming into every nook and cranny of the tiny apartment, and there were now about three noisy drunken conversations happening behind me. There were also some other MBA guys finally starting to show up—Jen really did have a way of reeling them in, didn’t she?—but no one I felt like talking to in my spare time.

  I decided I might go ahead and steal that empty spot next to Norah while it was still available. Maybe torture her a little bit more. She seemed to enjoy thinking of me as a dick, and for some reason, whenever I was around her, I felt compelled to rise to her expectations.

  I came over and settled in next to her.

  “Tired of fun?” I asked her.

  She gave me a delightful snarl which nearly made me laugh out loud.

  “Actually, I was having so much fun that I was getting totally exhausted, so I had to come over here and take a fun break.”

  “Right. Hey, here’s a question: Why can’t you just ad
mit that you don’t like parties?”

  “I do like parties. I think you might be projecting, mister.”

  “I don’t like parties,” I replied readily. “At all. And I have no problem admitting that.”

  “You mean you don’t like parties without caviar and champagne and a bunch of really snotty rich people stroking each other’s egos all night long.”

  “Oh, no. Those types of parties are the absolute worst.”

  She crinkled her eyes at me suspiciously.

  “Really?”

  “Of course. You think anybody is relaxed at those things? It’s all about making deals and keeping up appearances.”

  “But don’t you love deals? Did you not give our class a presentation about the art of making deals, which emphasized the importance of seeing every social occasion as a potential deal-making opportunity?”

  “Sure. And that’s a good idea, in theory. Doesn’t mean I enjoy it, though.”

  “Ah, right. Because you’re a huge misanthrope who hates other people. How could I forget?”

  I’d meant to poke at her a little, just for our own mutual entertainment. Instead I’d ended up offering a true opinion to her. And yet here she was, poking back anyway. Either she really hated me or she really liked to poke. Weirdly I decided it didn’t matter. Whatever the reasoning was behind it, getting poked at by Norah Green was probably going to be the high point of my evening.

  I wouldn’t mind doing another kind of poking back at her, if you know what I mean, said the shameful voice of my inner pervert. My inner pervert’s voice sounded a lot like my brother Barron.