Page 11 of Hot Mess Express
“Are they locals? Those two hotties?”
“Turd biscuits is what they are.”
“Okay.” She turns away and taps on the jukebox buttons, her face scrunching up as she fights through her blurry drunken eyes. “Is this in English? I can’t read anything.” A-ha’sTake On Meplays. “Oh, I know this one! Did I even pick this one? I dunno what I did.”
I dance distractedly with Juni, then catch myself turning back around to get a look at them. Cody and Trey, everyone in town knows who they are. But they’re accompanied by Captain Fuckface from the gas station and someone else. Are they friends of theirs? Neither Cody nor Trey have any out-of-town relatives that I know about, and they sure don’t look anything like them.
Then that pompous prick-o-potamus, appearing smug and full of himself, scans the room with his eyes—and catches me looking.
I quickly turn away. Juni’s gone into full dancing queen mode. I join her for a few seconds, but can’t get into it when I feel that jerk’s eyes all over my back. I turn again, ready to scowl at him or flip him the finger.
But he’s gone.
“I’m so sweaty … and crazy thirsty,” moans Juni. “Can I get … like, can you get me, I don’t know, something nice and hard?”
“Huh?” I grunt, distracted, as it’s now me scanning the room looking for that bastard.
“Nice and hard andbad. But also sweet, maybe? Like me?”
Then I spot him at the bar. How convenient. “Yeah,” I say, my blood burning hot, “I’ll get us somethin’ hard alright.”
“I have underboob sweat.”
I cut through the crowd heading straight for that man at the counter. Even from behind, you can tell he’s a dickhead. His tight jeans even make his ass look arrogant, like it’s the ass of a snobby, privileged kid at an Ivy League school blowing his parents’ money. He wears tight shirts, too, the sleeve-punishing kind, like he needs to announce to everyone that he works out. Who gives a shit? I sure don’t. And that stupid hair of his, styled so perfectly, parted at the side and swept over so it’s this fake balance of controlled and crazy. That shit doesn’t fool me. I know he spent an hour on that hair just to make it look like he spent ten seconds on it. He probably thinks he looks bad-ass, arms folded on the counter with his body leaning to the side just enough so the material of his shirt stretches over his back muscles, accentuating his broad shoulders that probably love to shove into people when he’s in a crowd.
I hate him so fucking much already.
When I reach the counter, I make no apologies when the side of my shoulder knocks into his as I flag down the bartender. “Hey, somethin’ nice and hard and sweet,” I call out, slapping a bill onto the counter, “and a littlebad.” I put on a smirk, asserting my own authority over the bar as I deliberately ignore the dick—and the fact that I can feel his eyes burning the side of my face right now. He’s got those permanently half-closed bedroom eyes that look so damned conceited, like nothing can get to him. I hate his eyes the most. “Two of ‘em,” I decide to add. “Need one for myspecialgal.”
Special gal?I dunno. But I say it, probably like the equivalent of puffing up my chest in front of this douche canoe.Yeah, that’s right, I got a special gal, and she’s a bombshell, and I’m gettin’ the pair of us some super bad-ass drinks.
Try as I might to ignore it, I feel him staring with a fiery and unmistakable intensity. He looks like he tries to say something but stops. Or maybe he did say something and I didn’t hear itin all this noise. Did he say hey? Did he say sorry? Did he just confess that he does, in fact, have the world’s tiniest penis and is a fuck-wad?
“Nice and hard and sweet,” comes the bartender, sliding two glasses over the counter and snatching the cash.
My eyes drop to the drinks.
They have tiny umbrellas.
Lemon wheels sitting prettily on the rims.
Cute maraschino cherries bobbing in cream.
I look up. “The fuck are these?”
“What you ordered,” answers the bartender dryly, then sets a tray in front of the asshole with four large glasses of beer—manly and foaming and thick. “Here you go, sir.”
“Thanks,” says the guy, putting on a show of acting polite and dignified. But I know better. Then he has the audacity to hand the bartender cash and say, “Keep the change.”
I stare at those big glasses for his table, probably sucking up to the reverend of Spruce and his husband, planning to return to them with his manly beers, tight shirt, and stupid hair.
I can’t shake the indignant look he gave me at the gas station. With his superior, self-important eyes. Stick up his ass. Probably calling me backwater trash behind my back. Looking down on me like a stain beneath his boot.
My blood boils hotter, just thinking about it.
My breaths come quicker, too, quicker and tighter.
He’s still fidgeting with the glasses of beer, taking his sweet ass time, when I grab my own drinks and spin around forcefully.
