Carrington had been in LA long enough to know one universal truth: California girls were a different breed.

Wild, untamed, and radiating a kind of energy that could either make your night legendary or ruin your life in the best possible way. They threw parties that blurred the line between euphoria and chaos, where the music was too loud, the drinks were too strong, and the memories were too hazy to ever fully piece back together. And among them, there was you—the party girl, the one whose name was whispered in VIP sections and shouted across crowded dance floors like a prayer.

Everyone knew about Tara Yummy. Her ragers were Instagram gold—penthouse views, celebrity cameos, the kind of nights that spawned a hundred you had to be there stories. But you? You were on another level entirely.

Your parties weren’t just events; they were experiences. The kind that left people buzzing for weeks, chasing the high of whatever insane shit went down in your orbit. Your guest lists were mythical, your reputation untouchable. People didn’t just want to be at your parties—they needed to be. Scrolling through Instagram was like walking through a digital shrine to your chaos, with tagged stories full of blurred faces, spilled champagne, and captions like I WILL sell my soul for another invite.

And tonight? Tonight, Carrington was finally in.

The second he stepped inside, the bass hit him like a physical force, rattling his ribs and syncing up with his pulse. The air was thick with sweat, expensive perfume, and the unmistakable tang of bad decisions waiting to happen. Bodies moved in sync under strobe lights, drinks sloshing over glitter-coated cups as laughter and shouts tangled with the music.

Carrington had been to his fair share of wild nights—Tara’s parties were no joke—but this? This was next-level.

He wove through the crowd, dodging a girl in a sequined bikini top who was dancing on a table, her arms looped around someone’s shoulders. A guy in sunglasses—indoors, at night, classic—slung an arm around him, shouting something unintelligible over the music before shoving a shot into his hand. Carrington downed it without thinking, the burn of tequila sharp on his tongue.

For a while, he let himself get swept up in it—the energy, the heat, the way the room throbbed like a living thing. But even he had his limits.

Needing air, he slipped through a sliding glass door onto the balcony, the sudden quiet almost jarring. Out here, the music was muffled, the night air cool against his skin. The city glittered below, endless and alive, and for a second, he just breathed.

Then—heels on marble. A slow, deliberate click-click-click that had him turning his head.

You.

Leaning against the doorframe, haloed by the party’s neon glow, you looked like something out of a dream—or a very, very good vice. Dress clinging to every curve, hair slightly messy from dancing, lips curved in a smirk that said you knew exactly the effect you had on people.

Carrington’s grin spread, slow and wicked, all teeth. "Well, well," he drawled, voice rough from shouting over the music. "Here’s our party girl." Carrington’s gaze dropped to your mouth, then back up. "Now I’m wondering what took you so fucking long."

The music inside swelled, the bass shaking the glass behind you. Somewhere, a bottle shattered, and a cheer went up. But out here? Out here, it was just you, him, and the kind of tension that could start—or end—a night.