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the elevator ride

The elevator ride down was gross. Killian reeked of weed, Derek smelled like bourbon, and Riley just stank.

I wasn’t the only one who thought so.

“God, it’s like ridin’ the underground in Paris in the summertime,” Miles muttered.

“What do you mean?” Ryan asked.

“Buncha Frogs without any deodorant, and they still smelled better’n you lot. Come on, out, out!” he yelled as the elevator door dinged open.

The walk through the lobby was fairly uneventful, but once we got out front, there were twenty paparazzi waiting, flashes going off. Derek smiled winningly for the cameras and hoisted up his bottle of scotch; Riley stuck out her tongue a là Miley Cyrus and flipped them off. Ryan, Killian, and Miles just ignored them.

The photographers probably got plenty of shots of me in the background, goggling at them like I had never seen a camera before.

Inside the black stretch limo, seating order was Killian, Derek, and me. Ryan sat opposite and facing me, and next to him were Riley and then Miles.
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