Total pages in book: 126
Estimated words: 122030 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 610(@200wpm)___ 488(@250wpm)___ 407(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 122030 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 610(@200wpm)___ 488(@250wpm)___ 407(@300wpm)
It’s well known that this is one of the few places within a sixty-mile radius where minors can get suitably inebriated if they slip the right bartender a generous tip. Which means tonight the place is filthy with drunken prep school teenagers all hornily gawking at one another from across the room. The restroom stalls rattle with hurried hookups while I do a bump at the sink with a football jock from Ballard with exceptionally long eyelashes.
“Do I know you?” he asks, squinting like he might recognize me in the right light. “You look familiar.”
I haven’t the slightest clue, but that doesn’t mean we aren’t acquainted. Who can keep track?
“I can put my dick in your mouth if that might help jog your memory.”
He forces a grim laugh and takes himself elsewhere because he can’t take a joke. Children. So sensitive.
A few Don Julios later, I don’t remember how I got here or why I came, only that even getting trashed seems more effort than it’s worth. I find myself in a booth with a group of loud St. Vincent’s chicks who smell of vodka-cranberries and hairspray. They talk about their boyfriends while angling to drink more than the girl next to them, so I know how eager they are to cheat on their unsuspecting beaus.
“New game,” one of them announces, and I don’t know if she’s talking to us or her phone. Her mascara is a cloud around her eyes while she flaps her hand at the table to command our attention. “Taking turns, you have to answer every question we ask for sixty seconds. If you don’t answer, you have to take a shot.”
“Yes!” Another one pounds the table. Her ponytail has fallen, and her hair hangs like it’s passed out over the toilet of her head. “We need shots!” she screams to the bar, and by some miracle they arrive moments later.
They smell like cheap well liquor, which I’m sure the bartender will charge as Grey Goose. Because why shouldn’t he.
“You first.” A blonde props her chin on her fist and gazes deeply into my blurry eyes.
“The answer’s yes,” I preempt, a grin tugging on my lips.
“You don’t even know what I was going to ask.”
“Don’t need to.”
“Ever had sex in public?”
“Yes.”
“Ever had a threesome?”
“Yes.”
“You’re not doing it right,” her friend chides. “What’s better during sex, coke or weed?” She’s so impressed with herself that I have to laugh.
“Everything’s better on coke. Except camping.”
We go around the table like that until it devolves to them daring each other to kiss because there’s nothing more outrageous to straight girls than performative queerness.
“Courtney got eaten out by her cousin,” one of them announces after gulping down my tequila, which she grabs right out of my hand like I’m not even here.
“Shut up, Beth!”
“What? You did.”
“Cousin by marriage,” she screeches, her face burning red. “And I didn’t know he was Terry’s nephew at the time.”
“He was running the go-kart track on Cape Cod.” Beth giggles, quite amused by manual labor. “Her mom basically married a carnie.”
“God, you’re such a cunt. He owns, like, amusement parks or whatever.”
Things go sideways as the two of them bicker and their friends take sides. I take that as my cue to slip away, while the bar staff turn on the ugly lights at two a.m. and practically start pushing everyone out with brooms.
One of them hangs back a moment while I’m settling my tab. She saunters up to me at the end of the bar and gives me a half-tempting smirk.
“Lawson, right?”
I don’t remember if I told them, though the circle of prep schools around here is a small one. No one is truly anonymous.
“I heard about an after-party, if you’re down,” she tells me, inching closer. “You can share our ride.”
“You’re a junior, aren’t you?” I ask. Not that I discriminate, but I’m not about to be the only senior feeling old as death around a bunch of Catholic school girls trying to out-slut each other behind the rectory or whatever.
“Yeah, so?”
I’ve got to hand it to her. Yeah, so is a great answer. My motto, in fact. And her confidence is probably the reason I say, “Maybe another time.”
“Good.” She smiles enticingly, flashing a set of perfect white teeth. Then she grabs my phone from the bar top and holds it out for me to unlock.
I watch in amusement as she calls herself on it. Adding her name to my contacts. I like bold chicks. They’re fun.
“Ainsley,” she says, batting her lashes at me. “Don’t forget. We can find a few things to try that you haven’t answered yes to yet.”
Now there’s an idea.
CHAPTER 15
FENN
“BISHOP, WHAT THE HELL WAS THAT?” COACH GROWLS FROM THE touchline when I send a sitter sailing over the net during Monday’s practice. “Pick your head up and place the damn shot.”