CASUAL AFFAIR; brendon urie

Chapter Thirty-Two

I ran the tip of my pinkie around and around the edge of the now empty glass I held, wondering, among other things - such as what the hell had just happened with Brendon, and Breezy, and gah, everything - what the trick was to make that ringing music with glasses was. Was it a knack, just something you knew? Or was it something you learnt, like a skill?

"Another one, miss?" the bartender broke me out my reverie, giving me an expectant look, and nodding toward the glass.

"Um." I thought about it, before shaking my head, and setting the glass down. "No, I'm good."

He nodded, and picked up the empty glass, leaving to go and clean it, or serve someone else. I supposed I should go and find Breezy, or Dallon, but from a sweep of the room they seemed to have moved things to another part of the building.

Ew.

Linda glittered like a disco ball not that far from where I was, but she was with a group of three other sparkly, pretty, skinny, tall girls, and they all looked to be gossiping and/or giggling, and for all I didn't despise them for it, it just wasn't my scene. I also spotted Ian, this time with his arm around a redhead, dancing along to Gym Class Hero's Cupid's Chokehold, beside Travie himself.

I felt like an awkward kid at a high school dance.

I debated making my way outside and calling Jessa just for something to do, someone to talk to but -

No, I'm a big girl. I can handle myself - and any stupid challenge Brendon had set.

So snatching a champagne flute from a passing tray, I took a courage gulp - it tasted sour after the whiskey and the bubbles went straight to my nose, tickling it.

I half-turned, and ... Let out what was a cross between a yelp and a scream of surprise as a hand literally hovered in front of my face, the woman attached about a half centimetre behind it. Her eyes widened, and she jumped back, apologising. "Oh my gosh, I'm sorry, I just ..." she shook her head. "I thought you were someone else. From behind there."

I took a deep breath, shaking my head. "No, it's fine. Just ... didn't expect that." I laughed a little, to show her no hard feelings. She looked a little familiar ... not like hey, I've met you, but haven't I seen your face somewhere? With her long dark brown hair, lighter brown streaks flashing through it, prominent at the ends of her hair, tan skin, long narrow face, biggish nose, dark arched eyebrows, light brown eyes and a skinny tall frame, I could have sworn I knew her from somewhere or other. She was wearing a black trilby, and unlike all the other girls in the room, looked less dress smart and more smart casual in a white shirt, black leather jacket and black leather skinny jeans. Her tallness was coupled with towering black heeled boots covered in studs.

The woman shook her head again, smiling sheepishly. "Again, I'm sorry. You looked like..." she waved a hand down the length of me and bit her lip. "But ... My name's Meagan." She stuck the hand she'd just waved downward out to me. "Camper. Meagan Camper."

"Florence." I took it, shaking. And then it clicked. How I knew her. Model, and Pete Wentz's girlfriend. "Florence Weekes."

"Wait..." she pursed her pink shiny glossed lips, looking thoughtful. "Don't tell me ... you're not Dallon's sister are you?"

So I had my identifier. I suppose it couldn't be helped, but ... ugh, Dallon. "Yeah." I nodded with a smile. "I'm Dallon's sister."

"Gosh, I can see that now!" she nodded, patting my arm in a light, friendly way. "Your eyes," she said in an awed voice.

I felt flattered by her compliment, blushing a little and smiling a little awkwardly. I mean, it wasn't like I couldn't take a compliment. It was more like that when I got one, I got giggly, clumsy and awkward, not knowing where to put myself. Especially coming from a model. "From my mom. Dallon's are like dad's."