I try to relax, but it’s pointless. My awareness of Gabby persists. Everything else feels like noise. It’s annoying as hell.
Why now? Why is this girl in my head all the fucking time now years after we stopped hanging out?
After a minute, he nods toward the bar. “Bree says she’s cool as fuck. Gabby helped her with some essay the other day. I think they have a class together.”
“Bree hates everyone.”
“Bree loves Gabby.”
“I thought you were trying to talk me out of being interested,” I say. “Not that I am.” He gives me a look. “What? I’m not.”
“I’m conflicted.” He sighs. “Bree is an excellent judge of character. And as we both know, she does, in fact, hate Miranda. It adds a kind of drama you and I both dislike.”
“Miranda and I aren’t an item. We pass the time together.”
Although lately, I’ve been wondering if we’ve reached our expiration date.
“Naked time. Yeah, I get that. We all need our outlets. I’m just wondering if you might benefit from someone who’s interested in more than your signing bonus.”
I tsk. “That seems awfully judgy.”
“Miranda’s a party girl, and there’s nothing wrong with that, but I’ve definitely heard her asking around about what kind of dough we’d get for signing at the draft. And she’s definitely eyeballing the WAGs club.”
I lurch back like someone slugged me. “She does not want to get married.”
“So she claims. But like I said, nothing wrong with her game play. To each her own. Except what happens if you got her pregnant?”
“What the fuck?” I swear my balls shrink and crawl up my sack.
“Hear me out. What if you got her pregnant? Then you’re stuck with her and a baby. For life. Or at least eighteen years. I’m just saying that scenario is less frightening if you’re dating a woman who has your back.”
I follow his line of sight and see Miranda flirting with some guy in a polo.
“She’s free to do her thing. There’s no exclusivity clause in our situation.” Hell, we’re not even dating, technically. Not that I go around fucking other girls while she and I are doing… whatever this is.
“But you and Miranda have gone a few rounds, no? Freshman year and then again last year, and now. I’m just saying she gave Sherry some evil looks a little while ago when she was serving drinks.”
I rub the back of my neck and turn just in time to watch Jason escort Gabby out to the little dance floor in the back. He pulls her close, aligning their bodies together, and I swear to God, I want to knock him the fuck out.
Tilting his drink, Tank clinks it with mine. “Don’t shoot the messenger.” He glances at the dance floor. “Or anyone else, for that matter.”
Easier said than done.
6
GABBY
This is a bad idea.
“Sienna, we’re not even close to the same size.” I motion to my boobs and butt. ’Nuff said.
“I know. I’m so jealous of your bodacious bod.”
I wouldn’t describe myself as having a “bodacious bod.” More like someone who enjoys tacos with extra guac. Even though I forget to eat sometimes, the weight never seems to come off my hood or trunk.
I’m not sure when this happened, but Sienna has taken it upon herself to be my fairy godmother of makeovers. And while I can always use help with my makeup, this getup seems a little extreme.
It started when I had that date with Jason, which was a waste of good mascara and a nice dress, if you ask me. All he did was take me to the bar so he could talk football with his bros. I mean, I liked the one or two slow dances we did in the back, but he wanted to talk about the game the entire evening. Not that I expected some fancy restaurant or anything expensive, but trying to avoid getting beer spilled on me all night was not my idea of fun.
Of course we went to the same bar where the players were hanging out. Of course Rider was there. My first date in ages, and the very last person on the planet I wanted to see was a few feet away, which made my mood worse.
Miranda looked like she wanted to maul him right there on the table. It’d be funny if it didn’t still hurt to watch him date other women.
Rider and I will never happen. I wonder when my heart will get the memo.
Smoothing a hand over the silky baby-pink fabric, I sigh. The costume would be lovely… if there was more of it. “I don’t have a bra I can wear with this.”
“You don’t need a bra. This puppy will hold you up.”
Straps crisscross everywhere, so I’m not sure how to verify her claims, but it’s getting down to the wire. If I want a different costume, I need to figure that out in the next half-hour before Jason comes for our second date.
I groan.
She holds up a finger. “To quote Herodotus—except I’m changing pronouns—‘If a woman insisted always on being serious, and never allowed herself a bit of fun and relaxation, she would go mad or become unstable without knowing it.’”
I tilt my head. “What’s your major again?”
“A little of this and that.” She waves my question away. “But really, don’t you need a break?”
Do I want to go out and relax? Of course. Do I want to do it with Jason? That’s the question. I keep waiting for the butterflies to take flight, but so far, I only have nerves from hanging out with someone I barely know.
“What if I get arrested for public indecency? There’s a very good chance I might poke out someone’s eye with my nipples if it gets cold tonight.”
She cackles. “My old roommate used Band-Aids over her nipples for extra coverage.” With one arm, she holds it up to me. “You’ve been working your ass off since I moved in. I barely see you. What’s a few hours of letting your hair down?”
Ugh, she’s saying everything I want to hear. Where the hell’s Ramona? I need someone to talk some sense into me, and I can usually trust Ramona to give it to me straight. There’s nothing she loves more than raining on someone’s parade. But Sienna, the annoying little ray of sunshine that she is, seems convinced I’ll enjoy myself tonight. “Screw it. You only live once, right?”
“That’s what I’m talking about!” She does a weird dance in her Poison Ivy costume that makes her strategically placed vines shake.
I have to admit that after my initial annoyance with her for lusting after football players—which is totally hypocritical, I know—she’s worn down my resistance to being friends. I have, like, two, and honestly I wasn’t looking for more. But she’s so damn nice. Always doing things for me for no apparent reason. I should be suspicious. Except I get the feeling she’s genuinely a good person who—get this—likes doing nice things for people just for the hell of it.
By the time she gets me strapped into the costume, I’m having major second thoughts. “I’m supposed to be Marie Antoinette, right? And not a French prostitute?”
“Gah! You’re gorgeous! You look like a Victoria’s Secret model.”
“You know they wear underwear, right? Typically worn under clothes.” I attempt to yank the skirt down, but there’s so little of it. “For the record, there’s a very strong draft shooting up my rear.”