Total pages in book: 91
Estimated words: 85453 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 427(@200wpm)___ 342(@250wpm)___ 285(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 85453 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 427(@200wpm)___ 342(@250wpm)___ 285(@300wpm)
“Milo… no… you can’t,” Kamil barks out in laughter when I dump my drink onto the seat next to me, then leap up onto the makeshift dance floor with McKayla. “You don’t know how to fuckin’ dance.”
“Who said I need to know how? I merely need to mimic gardening equipment.”
For the next hour, what McKayla’s sprinkler misses, mine gets with my tall height and the long reach of my arms.
“Just let it out. You’ll feel better once you get it up.”
McKayla’s back bends harshly when she brings up half the Chugger into a shrub two doors up from my frat house. It spurts out of her mouth and nose before spraying the green leaves with frothy liquid. The stench from the watery concoction curdles my stomach so much, I’m tempted to push her to one side so I can add some fertilizer to the garden bed with her.
“What the hell is that? Did you eat fish?”
She groans before sheepishly nodding her head.
My words are brittle when I ask, “Did you chew it? Those chunks almost look whole.”
Even down for the count doesn’t stop her retaliation. She whacks me in the gut before finalizing the exodus of her stomach.
“You good?” I ask when her stand sees her swaying like a meth head. “Can you walk?” I stray my eyes in the direction of her dorm, groaning when I realize we still have three blocks to walk.
At the pace we’ve been walking the past twenty minutes, we won’t be home before dawn.
“Do you want a piggyback?” When McKayla’s glassy eyes snap to mine, I say with a shrug, “It’s three blocks, and you’re walking one-tenth of a block an hour.”
I realize her smarts don’t dip when her blood-alcohol level rises. “So how many hours will it take us to make it to my dorm?”
“Tomorrow,” I remind her again, conscious our first study session is slated for tomorrow at noon. “So how about you get on before the roosters crow?”
McKayla drifts her eyes across the campus. “There are no roosters here.”
I slant my head and arch a brow. “I am as cocky as they come.”
She pffts me. “You’re a peacock. That’s an entirely different Phasianidae.” I’m about to crack open an encyclopedia, but before I can, she adds, “Bob. You’re too tall. I’d have to climb you like a jungle gym to get on top if you don’t come to me.”
She’s drunk, I remind myself when my mind goes straight to the gutter. And you’re a fucking gentleman ninety-eight percent of the time.
“Are you on?” I ask when the faintest breeze rustles the strands of hair peeking out from the bottom of my beanie. “I think one of those rooster feathers just rustled past me.” I choke out a swear word when she digs her heels into my ribs and tells me to giddyap. “I’m not a fucking horse.”
I am, but that’s a story for when I’m not carrying a drunk girl on my back.
Half a block later, McKayla rests her chin on my shoulder before asking, “What was that dance called again? The line dancing one.”
“The Nutbush is not line dancing. It is an Australian classic. If your ass doesn’t leave your seat when the Nutbush comes on, you’re kicked out of Australia and permanently banned from returning.”
It dawns on me that she is a sucker for tales when she responds, “Really? I always thought Australians were more civilized than that.”
“They are… until you diss the Nutbush.”
It is the fight of my life not to Nutbush down the street when McKayla commences humming “Nutbush City Limits” by Tina Turner. Despite his Greek heritage, my father knew every step of the Nutbush within a year of us moving to Australia, and his love for the classic rubbed off on me.
With McKayla getting heavier the more tired she gets, the climb to the second level of her dormitory is the longest part of our walk home. I’m not afraid I’ll drop her, she barely weighs anything. I’m worried about her head smacking into the low roofline. I have to duck through most doors and stairwells, and the dip of my knees is even more noticeable this time around since McKayla is half a head taller than me now that she’s riding on my back.
“Did you have to drink the whole cup?” I tug down the floral bedding on her bed before plonking her onto the mattress. “Mixer drinks at frat parties are four-fifths alcohol.”
“Which is what percentage?” McKayla asks through a hiccup. Her voice isn’t as badly slurred as it was when I joined her on the dance floor after calming Vivienne down.
Vivienne is always about the drama—hence my dislike of staged scenarios. Just the afternoon McKayla and I made our agreement, she threatened to self-harm, leaving me no choice but to check on her.