Page 1 of Forgot to Tell You Something

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Tally

“Ugh, the floor is sticky, and what is that smell?”

I swing my gaze over to Stefani, her button nose scrunched in disgust. “That smell is smoke and sweat, and you don’t want to know what’s on the floor. Do yourself a favor—remain upright. There’s all manner of bodily fluids down there.”

I choke back a laugh at her horrified expression. To be honest, I’m not positive there is any blood or urine on the floor, but I wouldn’t put it past Wicked Chucks. It’s the epitome of a dive bar, but they sure know how to bring together the underground punk and rockabilly community.

“Great. Now, I need to boil all my extremities.” Stefani waves her hand in the air after touching one of the black concrete walls, as if the bubonic plague is alive and well within the paint.

“Stef, correct me if I’m wrong, but weren’t you the one who wanted to come here?”

“You come here all the time, Lu.”

“You’re not me.” That is the understatement of the century. Stefani is my polar opposite—tall and lanky with huge tits and a face that makes men forget their own names. Did I mention the size of her breasts? They can double as flotation devices should the need arise. They’re not God given, but ask any man tripping over their own tongue as she walks by if they care. Simple answer—not one bit.

Then there’s me—the anti-Stefani. Standing next to her willowy frame, I might be mistaken for her pet chihuahua. I’m a foot shorter with enormous eyes hidden behind tortoiseshell frames and a mouth lacking any sort of filter. I guess God forgot to install one of those bad boys before I was shipped down here. Hell, sometimes I even surprise myself with the statements flowing from my lips.

But, despite the polar opposition in the looks department, I love this woman something fierce. Stefani is my ride or die. While she’s more Givenchy than counterculture, she’s hardcore loyalty and heart. So, the whole gorgeous supermodel vibe? Something I happily accept. Okay, not happily. There’s a shred—or ten—of jealousy that she is Heidi Klum’s doppelgänger, but I’m also aware that most men see nothing past her looks.

And most men don’t see me at all.

“These guys are hot as hell, though.” Stefani surveys the crowd, her lashes fluttering, but I’m not sure if it’s a seductive flirtation or the weight of her falsies. “I understand why you like the place.”

“I don’t come here to pick up guys.”

“You need to get laid, Lu.”

I can argue her suggestion, but it’s true. A painful, pathetic truth. I haven’t had sex in over two years, and even then, it was hardly memorable. Actually, it was only noteworthy because it was such a lousy lay. “I don’t remember what good sex feels like,” I grumble, downing the last swig of my beer.

“Can I give you some advice?”

I’m shaking my head before Stefani finishes her sentence. I know exactly what she’s going to say. I also know she’s going to ignore me and plow ahead with her well-intentioned statement.

“Throw out the rule book.”

See what I mean?

“Contrary to what you might think, Stefani, I don’t havethatmany rules. I’m just particular. Besides, my rules keep me safe. You might try getting a few of your own.”

She chews her bottom lip, considering my advice. I’m not alone in the bad boyfriend department. Stefani’s heart has been used as a punching bag more times than I can count. But, unlike me, she still believes in fated love.

I envy her optimism.

I shake my empty bottle in Dan’s direction, and he wastes no time bringing me a refill. The man is not only a kick-ass bartender, but he’s also a card-carrying member of my ride or die crew. We hit it off immediately the night I dared to enter Wicked Chucks alone, and he elected himself my personal bodyguard. The sad part? Dan earned his title that same evening, fending off a drunken buffoon who got a bit handsy. But luckily, he doesn’t hold it against me.

“What’s up, Strawberry Shortcake?” Dan jokes, tugging on my unicorn pink locks.

I scrunch up my face. So much for looking sultry; I apparently resemble a cartoon character.

Stefani, as always, has my back. “I like the pink. It’s funky, like you,” she states, pulling her hand through my hair with reassuring strokes.

I stick out my tongue in Dan’s direction. “See? I’m cool.”

“You don’t need pink hair to be cool, Tallulah,” Dan reminds me with a wink.

“This coming from electric blue boy,” I retort, as I offer a pointed stare at his bright azure hair, gelled into short spikes.

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