Zara
The kitchen in Locke’s penthouse looks like a crime scene, if the crime was committed by two women with a disposable income and a terrifyingly high tolerance for silver tequila.
Cardboard take-out containers are scattered across the island, emptied of spring rolls, pad thai, green curry, and an obscene pile of crab rangoon that Jade and I systematically destroyed over the last two hours.
Beside the wreckage sits a blender, half-full of slushy lime, and a giant bowl of salt that has slowly spread across the counter like a powdery beach.
The stereo in the living room is blasting an 80s dance track, and Jade is currently demonstrating a move she calls “the functional knee-bend,” which mostly involves her trying not to fall into the couch.
"The secret to a proper margarita," Jade sa
