Page 60 of Ask Your Mom If I'm Real

I looked away from my locker where I’d been standing to my best friend, who was now standing in front of his locker buck naked.

“What?” I asked.

His grin was lecherous when he said, “If I can’t get you to check out my naked body, then I’ve already lost your heart.”

I flipped him off, snatched my towel from the top of my locker, and headed for the shower.

Unlike him, I didn’t need time to prep my hair—IE product, style, and blow-dry—so it took me all of five minutes to shower and get dressed before being ready to walk back out the door.

The majority of the starting lineup followed me out the door and to the practice arena where we could hear a woman yelling.

“That’s Calliope.”

Chapter

Three

Sometimes I wonder if all this is happening because I didn’t forward that chain letter to ten people.

—Merriam’s secret thoughts

MERRIAM

“That’s Calliope.”

I looked to where my best friend was pointing and said, “That’s the owner’s daughter?”

“Yes,” she answered. “She’s the one that invited me to come.”

“And asked you if you had any other girls that might be interested in getting the snot beaten out of them and you volunteered me,” I grumbled.

“It’ll be okay. I promise,” she said.

I doubted it.

I hated getting hit, too. It was the worst.

How did I know it was the worst?

Because one, I had an abusive father that made it damn near impossible to live on my own, and found new and exciting ways to make my life a living hell when I tried to escape from his suffocating clutches.

Anyway, back to the face beating, the women that were showing up in droves were slightly terrifying me.

At least I knew how to take a punch.

“I’m not so sure about this,” I said when a woman in a mini-skirt so short that I could see her bright pink hipster underwear as she rolled by.

“That one looks like Ilona Mahar,” Gisela whispered. “God, she’s gorgeous. I think I’d like getting my ass kicked by her.”

My best friend and I were straight as boards. Saying that, we could truly appreciate the feminine form, and the woman she’d just pointed out that came in wearing short shorts and a tank top that said ‘No Bull’ on it truly was gorgeous.

She also looked like she’d dominate whatever sport she decided to play.

Her thighs were magnificent.

“Her thighs look like that one cheerleader that lifts the girl up in the air by herself,” I murmured. “Do you think she was born with those thighs? Or do you think that she had to work her ass off for them?”

“Born with them,” I heard a masculine voice say from behind me.

---