The DJ at The Rusty Anchor was a brave man. He was currently trying to mix a Dua Lipa track with a sea shanty, and the result was a auditory hate crime that somehow slapped.
"Come on!" Zoe screamed over the bass, grabbing Aria's wrist. "The floor is calling us!"
"The floor is sticky!" Aria shouted back, resisting. "It's seventy percent beer and thirty percent regret!"
"That's just texture!"
Zoe didn't take no for an answer. She dragged Aria out of the booth, leaving a very drunk, very sullen Bella to guard the tequila bottle.
The dance floor was a writhing mass of production assistants, gaffers, and background actors letting off months of steam. The air smelled of sweat, cheap cologne, and freedom.
Zoe threw her hands up, her silver slip dress shimmering like a disco ball as she spun around. She was full-on performing, treating the sticky pub floor like the main stage at Coachella.
