Page 8 of Rating the Book Boyfriend

I hear movement from the bed beside me. “What the fuck is that?”

“Gemmmmm…”

“Libby?” Her voice is muffled. “Why does your voice sound like my Uncle Louie? He smoked three packs a day and has one of those voice box thingies. Did you get one of those implanted?”

My brain aches.Did I?“Not that I can recall.”

“Well, stop talking. Your voice is freaking me the fuck out. It’s like you swallowed about thirty frogs while you were asleep.”

Still not opening my eyes, I call out, “JoJo, is there a frog epidemic in Colorado?”

“No. Shut the fuck up! I’m trying to die in peace,” comes a voice from the other room.

Convinced I hadn’t inhaled any amphibians, I rest my head back on my pillow and hear Gemma groan.

“Who are all these people in our room?”

“That’s what I was trying to ask you a few minutes ago when you started talking about frogs and Uncle Louie. They seem to be members of a demonic marching band.”

“Uncle Louie is a demon?”

I huff out a sigh of frustration as my head pounds. “No, the ones playing the bass drums in our room.”

“And cymbals. So many fucking cymbals,” she whines. “It sounds like they’re inside my head.”

“Literally the worst marching band ever.”

“They’re demons. What did you expect?”

I lay silent for a few seconds as the booms and crashes escalate, making my head hurt even worse. “We should try to get rid of the evil drummers,” I suggest. “We need to do one of those things like in that movie.”

“An exorcism?”

“Yeah, that.”

“Mmkay, go ahead.”

“Okay, here goes.” I clear my throat and struggle to remember the words the movie priest used to expel the demons. “By the power vested in me, stop fucking playing percussion,” I call out. Gemma laughs, and our noise prompts another response from JoJo through the wall.

“I swear to god, I’m going to stab you both if you don’t shut up.”

“Libby is getting rid of the demonic marching band,” Gemma calls back.

“You bitches are still drunk. That’s not a marching band; it’s the vodka pounding your pointed little heads.”

“Huh,” Gemma muses. “That actually makes more sense.”

“I’m going to open my eyes and check for evil fiends anyway,” I say, creaking open one reluctant eyelid and then the other. The room is mostly dark, but I can see a bit of light peeking through the floral drapes.

“Anything?”

“Nothing except those hideous curtains. Who thought it was a good idea to combine orange and chartreuse?”

“Oh, your ass knows chartreuse but can’t tell the difference between hot-pink and fuchsia?”

An image of me with sex lube on my arms and hands somehow filters through the Jell-O mold that is my brain, and I giggle through the throbbing pain in my head.

“Chartreuse should seriously be banned from the color wheel. It serves no purpose and reminds me of vomit.”

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