Page 78 of You're so Bad

I laugh. “You know, two days ago, you told me you’d never fuck me, and now you’re thanking me for orgasms. You’re making my head spin.”

“Maybe you’re making my head spin too.”

I don’t mean to, but I kiss her again, then lift my face to look at her. There’s barely an inch between us, maybe two. I can see a few freckles across the top of her nose and a small scar, barely a half inch, above her eyebrow.

I’d like to know what it’s from so I could punch whoever did that to her too. Even if it was a header into a coffee table.

“That was incredible,” I say. “Hell, I’ll even roll out a five-dollar word. It was stupendous.”

Her nose wrinkles, making those freckles dance. “Look at you, being generous.”

“You bring it out in me.”

She smiles up at me. “I don’t know if it’s because it’s been so long, but I’m thinking we might need a ten-dollar word for it.”

“How long?” I ask.

“Nine months.”

“Nine months?”

She laughs at the look on my face. “Yes, I know. Might as well be a century for you. It’s a surprise I wasn’t re-virginized.”

“No,” I say as I reach up and trace those freckles. “It’s been some time for me too.”

“A week?”

“A couple of months. Maybe three.”

Her look of surprise makes me laugh. “You think I bang women in fast food bathrooms. Your grandmother told me.”

“Was I wrong?”

“It may have happened before, but that don’t mean it’s a habit.”

She shoves my arm, but I wrap it around her. “I’ve been trying to do things differently. I don’t want that life anymore.”

The look she gives me settles in deep. It feels as good as a double shot of whiskey on a cold winter’s day—and as bad as the hangover you’d get after downing too many of them. Because I really don’t know what I’m doing, and she may be the one to pay the price.

Shoving those thoughts down, I say, “Now, let’s go get run out by some pitchforks.”

She laughs, and we slide on our sandals and start walking toward the opening of the gazebo. I’m fond of this gazebo. I’m tempted to burn it down so no one else can ever use it for anything, or maybe move in with my toothbrush and pillow.

As we head back toward the main cabin, she tells me about the other lie Champ told—how he’d convinced her it was his mother who wasn’t interested in stocking her art when it was him all along. If I’d felt some respect for him for admitting he’d deserved a punch for messing around on my tiger, it dies a quick death. I want to hit him again.

“We can’t let them uninvite us,” I blurt, grabbing her hand. “No way is this done.”

Shauna stops in her tracks but doesn’t release my hand. “What do you mean? You just punched the groom in the face. You were right. There’s no way Bianca will let that slide, even if she wants to keep messing with me.”

“We’re gonna make those psychic’s predictions come true. Bianca will think she’s cursed or some shit.” Somehow it feels important, like this is what was meant to happen. Not in a fated way, but in awe’re going to make our own fateway.

“Bianca doesn’t believe in that kind of thing,” Shauna says. “She’s a cynic.” But I can tell I have her attention.

“Let’s make her believe.”

“She’s not going to letyoucome to the wedding.”

“So? Tell her you’ve dumped me. You can make it happen on your own. I’ll help from the outside.”

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