Plans were boring. It was much better to go where the night took them, making their decisions based on the situations that presented themselves. That way, they never had to miss an opportunity. They might even have passed the evening pleasantly: a few drinks, some good music, maybe a little weed to loosen them up. They might not have decided to kill anyone after all. They didn’t do everything they talked about—not even everything Trin talked about. Oliver and Miguel half-expected her to forget about the whole thing. She almost did, too, until she overheard some drunken douchebag at the bar bragging to his friends about how he was going to get “that fag” out in the parking lot and “fuck him up.” Trin didn’t mind people calling Miguel a fag—hell, she called him a fag. Miguel called himself a fag half the time. The chance that mere words would arouse her ire depended entirely on her current mental state, and tonight she was feeling pretty good.
