Page 17 of Pucking Christmas Triplets Surprise

“Good,” she nods, poking her nose in the air and moving off of my lap with a weak smile. “Now be for real, what’s going on?”

I take a shaky breath, burying my face in my hands for a moment before letting the truth spill out. “I messed up, Marissa. Bad. And with the worst possible person.”

She raises an eyebrow, clearly intrigued but waiting patiently. “Okay...and who is the worst possible person if it’s not Dylan?”

I flip onto my stomach away from Marissa and scrunch my pillow under my chin. If I can’t tell Marissa, then I will never tell anyone. My best friend is the only one I can trust with this secret; she’d probably even congratulate me on having sex with one of the guys on herwould fuck if I was their age listand be extra proud of me, saying age is just a number and getting fingered by the sexiest guy on campus.Bbut every time I try to utter the truth, my mouth goes dry. How do I explain that I am almost fucking Christopher Jackson? How do I tell Marissa that I got fingered by the hockey coach? How do I explain that I may even like Christopher Jackson? It feels like my brain is rejecting the very thought.

“I just can’t tell you,” I mumble into the pillow.

“Josie, honey, if you killed someone, you have to tell me now because the body is already decaying.” She rubs the small of my back, and I giggle.

“No murder. I didn’t murder anyone.” I grumble because I totally wish I did murder Christopher Jackson, that piece of shit, leaving me literally covered in my cum and so ready for him to toss me over the benches and drill into me with a cock I could feel through his jeans— and trust me it was huge, mouth-wateringly huge— after getting a call from an Abby. Iturn on my side to look at Marissa, who is staring at me with knitted eyebrows. “No hiding a body, but just let me stay here and watchGilmore Girlson my phone until I pass out from a sugar coma.”

I turn around to snuggle back into my blanket-made cocoon. Still, Marissa grabs the blanket, exposing me to the cold elements again. She leans in, her pixie cut brushing against my shoulder, eyes wide and excitedly buzzing. “But since you won’t tell me what’s going on,” she teases, waggling her eyebrows, “I’ll justhaveto lower your inhibitions with as many Dirty Shirleys as humanly possible.”

I should mention now that I don’t party, like ever, because I am training to be an olympian, and figure skating, or even standing straight up on blades when your head is screaming bloody murder is totally not a thing. You will vomit ten seconds out on the ice, and any coach worth a damn will make you skate through it.

I groan, but it’s already too late. She’s in full Marissa mode, grinning like a cat with a whole birdcage to herself. “And don’t even think about fighting me on the wardrobe, babe. I just bought the most perfect black leather mini dress—and it is going to make your ass look so good you’re going to stop traffic, so bad there will be a fifteen car pile up!”

“Marissaaa,” I drag her name out in a whine, trying to sink back into the safety of my pillows, but she’s got the strength of a woman possessed. Before I can even blink, she hooks an arm under mine and pulls me upright like a rag doll.

“Up, up, up! It’s Halloween night, and we are dressing up like hot girls!” she chirps, clapping her hands. “No moping. I refuse to let you sit here like a sad dumpling all night.”

“I amnota sad dumpling,”I protest weakly.

“Youarea sad dumpling,” she counters, her nose scrunching in mock sympathy. “And I—” she places a dramatic hand over her heart—“would be a terrible best friendandfuture psychiatrist if I didn’t check in and say you probably shouldn’t drink when you’re sad.”

I snort. “Probably?”

“Okay, okay.Definitelyshouldn’t,” she says, leaning in conspiratorially, “but let’s be real. You and I both know you’re drinking tonight.”

I open my mouth to argue, but she cuts me off with a sly grin. “Might as well do it in something hot, right?” She wiggles her brows again, that dangerous glint in her eyes telling me resistance is futile.

“You’re the worst,” I mutter, though a tiny smile sneaks onto my lips despite myself.

She gasps, scandalized. “Theworstbest friend ever, thank you very much.”

I roll my eyes, but Marissa just beams, knowing she’s already won.

“Come on, babe,” she nudges me gently. “We’ll dance it out, flirt with some randoms, and I swear, no one will even mention figure skating. Just you, me, and a million bad decisions.”

It’s hard to say no when she’s like this—bright and determined, the only person who’s ever made me feel like Josie Richards, not Josie-the-Olympic-Dream. And maybe, just maybe, that’s exactly what Ineed tonight.

“Fine,” I huff, standing up.

Marissa squeals, clapping her hands together. “Yes! Now get ready, babe—we’ve got Dirty Shirleys to slay and boys to confuse!”

“And maybe some emotional breakthroughs while we’re at it?” I ask dryly, pulling a sweatshirt over my head to change.

“Obviously,” she says, not missing a beat. “Nothing sayshealinglike dancing on a bar in a leather mini.”

I shake my head, biting back a laugh. “You areinsane.”

“Certified and loving it,” Marissa says with a wink. “Now move it. That dress isn’t gonna wear itself.”

CHAPTER 8

JOSIE

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