Page 146 of Rock Bottom Girl
“So we’re good?” I asked with suspicion. This guy didn’t hold onto grudges like I did.
“We’re good,” Travis promised.
“There you are!” an adorably drunk Jake bellowed from the door. He frowned, looking first at me and then Travis. “You two are alone in a bedroom?”
“I was changing out of my pool clothes,” I explained. “And then I destroyed their closet. And then I apologized to Travis for high school.”
“All of high school?” Jake asked, confused.
“No, just the parts that I messed up for him.”
“And I told Marley that there’s no hard feelings. It’s all good.” Travis slapped Jake on the shoulder. “So when are you bringing that piece-of-shit SUV in and trading it for an Escalade?”
“Pfft,” Jake snorted. “When you start offering fifty percent off for high school classmates. So, Mars. I hunted you down because Vicky says it’s time for your Spice Girls routine.”
I perked up. Vicky and I had spent part of junior high coordinating a spectacular dance routine to most of the Spice Girls’ catalog.
“If you gentlemen will excuse me, there’s an ass I need to shake. Spoiler alert: It’s mine.”
62
Jake
Arhythmic sawing noise woke me, and I wondered who the fuck let the lumberjack in the house. I opened one bleary eye and immediately slammed it shut against the abrasive light of day.
I had a Hostetter Hangover. Something I’d avoided for the past four years since the “drunk in the whirlpool tub” incident.
My headache had a pulse. It was a living, breathing thing, and I wanted to kill it.
A desert. The motherfucking Sahara Desert. That’s what was inside my mouth. There were cacti growing on my tongue.
Someone else moaned, and I realized my body was contorted around Marley. I could tell by the smell of her shampoo, the shape of the ass pressed against my crotch. Wait. What was happening with my crotch? It felt like it was being hugged.
I cracked my other eye open and looked down.
“How the hell did I get in bicycle shorts?”
“Huh?” Marley groaned into a Harry Potter pillow.
I didn’t have a Harry Potter pillow. Or bike shorts.
The horror was just sinking in when there was a cheery knock at the door. And then I was making eye contact with Ned Cicero.
“Marl—holy shit,” he squeaked.
I tried to wrestle the bedspread up and over my body.
“Are those my bike shorts?” Ned asked.
“Dad?” Marley finally roused herself from the depths of her hangover to join me in this misery. “Jake?”
“Apparently we decided to crash here last night?” I guessed.
It was coming back to me in bits and pieces. Whiskey and beer. Jell-O shots. Boone’s Farm Pong. It was easier to just stumble next door than call for a ride.
“I’ll just leave you to it,” Ned said, his voice two octaves higher than usual.
It. He was going to leave us toit.
