"I've never lived anywhere but California," says the white cop in the really gay shirt.
Simone wants to roll her eyes. She doesn't, because she wants to sit in a corner of a club with people who aren't talking to her even less, but it's a near thing, a very near thing. She settles for looking off in the distance, studiously bored.
She can't decide if these jokers are social rejects or defending her tender sensibilities. It's true that I Never is a baby game, as far as drinking games go. Simone would have suggested something racier, but if people are trying to kill her, her protection probably shouldn't be doing body shots. She's not surprised that people are trying to kill her, really. Simone realized about two years ago that if her dad wasn't a bad man, he definitely worked for bad men.
The black one nudges her knee and says, "And what about you?" He keeps prompting her like she's his little sister and he's her brother.
She looks down at her drink, shakes her head. "I'm a California girl, through and through."
Gay Shirt laughs. "That's more obvious than you probably know, but most of the Cali girls I know like you, they've done the fancy boarding school thing, year in Europe, whatever whatever." He waves a hand off in the distance and smiles, showing her his interest, asking her for more.
And this is the part that makes her think maybe these guys are smart, because they're using a stupid baby game to find out about her. And if they find out about her, they find out about her dad.
She understands the reasoning, but the question still stings. She thinks, she doesn't know, but she thinks that her dad started working for bad men to pay for her, to pay for the horse and riding lessons she wanted and the motorbike and the designer dresses. Also, that year of tutoring after Mom died. "I kind of wanted to go away," she says. And that's true, as far as it goes. She wanted to get away from California once Mom died and Dad started globe hopping. And she does, for short bursts. She can wheedle a ride on a company jet and be just about any place she wants for a little while. She managed a week in Paris one time.
She shrugs and tries to smile. It feels shaky. The lights in the club are fucking with her eyes. She's never been under strobe lights sober before. "Dad wasn't hot on me getting away from home." He couldn't find a boarding school that allowed him to send in outside security, is what that meant. And none of the ones she could handle academically were secure enough for him. She wishes her dad had thought ahead a little. He does all of this pre-planning for his demolition, placing charges here and there to get the building to fall down like so. He talks about it sometimes, when he's encouraging her to be an architect. Maybe a little forethought would have told him that Simone would rather live to see legal drinking age than have a fucking horse.
She looks straight at the two cops, the two of them sitting next to each other and across from her. She gets a nasty little idea. "Okay, my turn."
The Brother does roll his eyes at that. "Oh, great. Here comes another girly one. You do know that however much pineapple juice you drink, you're not going to get drunk, right?"
She snorts, then picks up her juice and salutes him with it. "I've never…kissed a man." She sips delicately and raises an eyebrow.
The cops look at their drinks, too hard and too long. Simone had pegged the white one as queer, but not the black one. Apparently, you really can't tell just by looking. They both pick up their glasses and gulp some down, faces pursed like they've got straight lemon juice in there or something.
Simone laughs, an indelicate snort, she can't help it. "What, no story?"
The Brother gives her a weird look, sort of mean, but not disgusted the way he was earlier. Almost like he doesn't think of her like a brat. "I've never hit a chick," he says, almost growls, and then drinks the rest of his juice.
Really Gay shirt drinks, too.