Page 29 of My So-Called Perfect Life
Amelia disagrees. Her perfectly messy blonde bun bobs on top of her head as she shakes it. “I don’t think it was Scott.”
“What?” I ask.
“Of course it was. He’s a cheating bastard.” Mercy adds.
“No doubt about that,” she says. “But symptoms of chlamydia take about two weeks to show. Scott’s been cheating for a while. There’s no way a chick begs a guy to not marry someone after only a few weeks. That shit was going on for months.”
“Way to rub salt in my wound, sis.”
She holds her hand up as a lame apology. “Hot bar guy with his pierced dick was about two weeks ago.”
“Condoms prevent that,” Mercy disputes. “There’s no doubt Miss Follow-all-the-rules over here used one.”
My stomach drops.Plummetsis more like it. My face too. I feel it go lax, and my eyes practically pop from my head.
“You did, right?” Mercy questions as she turns and takes in my face and body language.
“I …” I stutter. “I did, but at first, I totally forgot. I hadn’t used one in so long. I was a little eager to get started and might have forgotten for a second. But literally a second.”
“Oh, for fuck’s sake,” Amelia grumbles. “Seriously? It only takes a second. Did you sleep through sex ed? Strangers equal condoms, Danielle.”
I’m such an idiot. But that doesn’t mean I’m going to let my little sister lecture me on safe sex.
“Well, clearly, lesson learned, Amelia,” I bark. I drop my head into my hands. “He gave me chlamydia and ditched me. I sure know how to pick ’em, huh?”
“What’s done is done,” Mercy declares. “It’s a beautiful summer Saturday afternoon in the city. I say we have a couple of drinks and get out of here.”
Glancing around my apartment, I realize I could use some fresh air and girl time to forget about all the shit I’m going through.
“Sure. Why not?”
Chapter Nine
Danielle
We had a few moredrinks, and then Mercy and I changed out of our workout clothes. Amelia demanded I put on something cute and fix my hair and makeup, claiming that feeling good on the outside would make me forget all about my flaming vagina—her words, not mine.
One pair of cute denim shorts and super-tight tank, curled pony, and serious eyeliner later, we headed out.
“My tits are trying to escape this shirt.” Mercy looks down at her cleavage as we take a seat in the metal chairs set up around a bunch of round tables in a sectioned-off part of the intersection between Market Street and Lexington.
Apparently, this part of the city is hosting a street fair today. We stumbled upon the food and beer trucks after walking about five blocks from my apartment.
“Well, considering you’re an entire cup size bigger than me, my shirts aren’t really designed to keep those bad boys locked up.”
Mercy came over in yoga pants and a sports bra. Not exactly going-out clothes, so she raided my closet. She’s lucky I had one of her bras in my drawer that she left at my house at some point or else her Ds would definitely be out for viewing.
“I think you look hot,” Amelia says. “I think they do over there too.” She jerks her chin toward a table of guys a few rows over, and they are no doubt checking her out.
We are three good-looking women.
Amelia is the sultry one. She looks good, no matter what she does. Her shoulder-length blonde hair is always styled expertly. Her makeup is done to highlight her honey-hued eyes and her pouty lips. She’s thin with curves in all the right places.
Mercy is the voluptuous one. Her tits are amazing, and so is her ass. She hides it often because she works with teenage boys, but the woman has a body made for sin. Her dark hair has gorgeous, natural beach waves, and her bright blue eyes are captivating.
Me? I’m more the subtle girl next door. Pin-straight dirty-blonde hair that hits the middle of my back with big, round brown eyes and long legs, and I’m sweet as pie. I’m your stereotypical kindergarten teacher with a perky disposition and cheery voice—well, outside of the last two weeks anyway.
“Meh,” Mercy replies. “Not my type.”
