I shake my head.
“You do! It’s like she was addicted to attention. I swear, if she didn’t have it, then the whole world was gonna have to answer why.”
“It’s…” I try to think of the perfect descriptive word for the blonde-haired, blue-eyed, champion fighting, tournament hosting, enviably badass businesswoman that – according to Chrissy and today’s newspaper – is soon to be wed. But I’m drunk, and that was already a lot of work, so I settle on a snicker and take another sip of wine. “I dunno, Hannah. Obnoxious ain’t illegal.”
“It should be!” she scowls. “Now she’s bagged Ben Conner, and they’re so effing happy that it makes me sick, and because it’s the newest in event, Momma won’t shut up about it.”
I burst out in piggish snorts and spill several vitally important sips of wine. “Good lord, Hannah. There’s no way in hell your mom is getting an invite.”
Alcohol… that’s the only excuse I have for my big mouth as her fiery eyes come to mine.
“I mean… They’re Kincaids, and we’re… uh…” I stumble.
Damn you, drunk brain! Work faster!
“Did you see how that other one got famous for dancing?” she sneers. “Everything comes so friggin’ easy for them.”
“Ugh,” Jenna groans – and ends it with a belch. “I hate them so much.”
“You just said not to make you hate them!” I laugh. “You already do!”
“I think I have PTSD from that other one…” She scowls. “Bryan.”
My top lip curls back at his name.
We all know who Bryan Kincaid is. He’s the kind of guy you wear a hazmat suit around… and then you carry one of those long-range cattle prods at the end of a six-foot stick to keep him away. Assuming your cattle prod and plastic armor were implemented and successful, add a Clorox bath and a sprinkle of antiseptic spray in your nether regions, and hopefully, at the end of that, a girl can walk away without a nasty case of the clap.
I mean, that’s all hearsay, of course, considering I’ve never stooped so low as to meet him in my life.
Unlike Jen… I giggle.
“I can’t believe how much of a douchebag he is. He’s just…” Hannah hisses. “Wow. What were you thinking?”
“He was charming!” Jen screeches. “He just has to smile, and bam! Panties, gone.” Heat sneaks into her cheeks while she paints her nails and avoids looking up. “He ruins lives, ladies. He’s a fuckin’ douchebag. A beautiful, smooth-talking, broad-shouldered, pretty-eyed douchebag.” She shakes her head. “It wasn’t my fault.”
“He forced you?” I drunkenly laugh. “Is that what you’re saying?”
“Well…” She clears her throat. “If by forced, you mean he smiled at me, then yes!”
I burst out in belly-bouncing giggles. “You ruined your own life, Jen. That was on you!”
“He took me to bed,” she whimpers, “and then he sent me home to Andrew, knowing he’d marked me.”
“With your own lipstick!” I cackle. “He wrote his name on your back, using your lipstick while you were passed out.” Wine dribbles straight out of my mouth and drips off my chin. I’m such a slob. “Then you went home and told Andrew you’d been out with us.”
“Then I got undressed,” she cries, “got in the shower.”
Deserting her silent contemplation of her wineglass, Chrissy barks out a loud laugh. “That was such a dick thing to do.” And yet, she chokes on a mixture of wine and laughter. “He wrote his name on you, then sent you home to the fiancé!”
“It was so bad,” Jen groans. “There is no way to explain it away. Andrew was sooo mad.”
“And now we all have pretty dresses to wear, but no wedding to wear them to,” I faux pout.
“Like I said,” Hannah seethes. “Douchebag. And I mean, we know Jackson, so we’re already fairly accustomed to knowing the high dollar, fast car, thinks he’s God’s gift to women, totally full of himself, grade-A asshole type.”
“Wow,” Jenna drawls. “Tell us how you really feel about my big brother.”
Shoulders bouncing, furry teeth from drinking too much, I lay back in Jen’s bed and snicker. “Jackson is a douchebag too. He doesn’t get some kind of free pass simply because Kincaid is worse.”
“He chose me because of Jackson,” Jenna groans. “He said come hither, talked me into bed, probably rocked my world–”
“Probably?” I squeal with laughter. “What do you mean probably?”
“I was drunk, okay!” She tosses a comb so fast that a drunk chick could be forgiven for thinking it was a ninja star. “He crooked a finger, I said yes please, climbed into that sexy car of his…” She shakes her head. “Next minute, I’m awake and being shuffled out the door. It wouldn’t be so bad if I could at least remember what he was packing. But he did it all because of Jackson. For payback.”
“I hate him,” Hannah seethes. “I hate them both, and wish they’d stop their shit.”
“You’re just mad he didn’t crook his finger at you.” I toss the comb across the room and knock over the little mirror. “You would have thrown yourself into that douchebag’s arms if he offered.”
“Wait, whose arms?” Jenna asks. “You’re not looking at my brother, are you? Because we made a pact.”
Three of us – me, Chrissy, and Jen – poke our fingers into our mouths and fake gag in sync.
Poor, poor Jackson has been brother-zoned by three of the four of us, and the fourth, Hannah, says the words Jen needs, but she doesn’t mean them. If Jackson Price were to lift his chin in silent invitation to a quiet closet, Hannah would light the floor on fire to get there.
“The point is,” Jen sneers when Hannah makes herself busy fixing the mirror I knocked over. “Bryan Kincaid is a douche. His cousin is getting married. His other cousin is famous for shaking her ass. And while we’re on that train, his sister is a stuck-up bitch. But there ain’t a damn thing I can do about it except pour their champagne during dress fittings, because…” She does the jazz hands. “Hello, status and money. I’m not saying no to this opportunity.”
“Do they know who you are?” I whisper. I push up to sit, to get closer, like that’ll help me get to the truth. “Is it awkward when they’re getting the dress altered?”
She shakes her head. “I suspect I’m one of a million idiots who has used his revolving door. I doubt he gives his family a report on who he’s fucked in his spare time.”
“So you just…” Chrissy turns on my legs to study Jen. “You just act like everything is normal?”
“Uh huh. That’s called being a professional.”
“You should fuck up her dress,” Hannah growls. “Make it too small so she feels fat on her wedding day.”
I roll my eyes and scoff. “She’s a professional fighter. Girls with six-packs don’t feel fat. They know it’s literally not possible.”