Prologue
MYLA
“How does my hair look?” Nichole asks as she pushes the short blonde locks behind her ear.
“Still fresh, still curled, but don’t put it behind your ear,” I whisper.
“Are you sure?”
“Positive.”
“Breath?” She blows in my face.
I take a large sniff—because that’s what best friends are for—and say, “Smells like nothing.”
“Good.” She tugs on the hem of her black dress. “I thought those nachos we had at the bar were going to make me have cheese breath.”
“Cheese breath is nowhere to be found.”
“Thank God.” She glances up the stairs of the townhome and then back at me. “He’s cute, right?”
“Uh, he’s more than cute,” I answer. “He’s hot.”
“Yeah, okay. I wasn’t sure if I was making it up in my head. But he’s hot. His jawline is incredible.”
“And his shoulders are broad,” I answer. “And even though his shirt is loose, you can tell he has muscles.”
“Lots of muscles, and what are we a fan of?” Nichole asks.
“Men with muscles,” I answer with a fist pump.
“And this place is pretty nice.” Nichole glances around. “I mean, it screams bachelor pad, but we’ve seen worse.”
“Totally. At least beer cans aren’t being used as decorations.”
“Just stupid sports flags,” Nichole says, gesturing to the large Phoenix Studmuffins flag pinned to the stark white wall.
One couch, one enormous TV mounted on the wall with loose cords, brown carpet that’s seen better days, and a single four-by-six picture of two guys hanging next to the TV, their arms wrapped around each other in a “bro hug.” There’s not much to the space, not even a dining table where a dining table should be. It’s just empty.
“Do you think they like the Studmuffins?” I ask. “That flag is very large. They’re obviously fans of the Triple-A team.”
“How do you know it’s Triple-A?” Nichole asks. “You don’t watch baseball.”
“I waited a table that just came from a game.” I shrug. “Either way, I wonder if they’re actually fans or if it’s more of an ironic thing. You know, like . . . they got it for free, and now it’s the only decoration they have besides the four-by-six frame that’s made for a side table, not a wall.”
Nichole taps her chin. “Hmm, well, the guy . . . God, what’s his name again?”
“Banner,” I say with a roll of my eyes.
Out of the two of us, Nichole likes to sleep around, and I have no problem with that. Get it in while you can is what I say, but we’re a package deal. Not as in threesome potential, but as in I have no shame in waiting for Nichole to get done with her business so we can walk out together, hand in hand.
“Oh right, Banner. Anyway, he seems more ironic than anything. The flowers on his button-up shirt scream ironic.”
“I could see that,” I answer just as the stairs creak.
“Oh God, he’s coming.” Nichole flashes her teeth at me. “Anything in them?”
“Nope, you’re good.”
“And breath is fine still?”
“It didn’t change in the past three minutes.”
She opens her mouth and closes it. Opens and closes. “How’s my range, you know, in case I need to slip anything in my mouth tonight?”
I chuckle. “Looking a little stiff, but I’m sure he’ll be stiff as well.”
“Ha, good one.”
“Hey,” Banner says from the doorway of the living room. “Uh, you want to head up?” He gestures toward the stairs with his thumb. When we arrived, he asked for a minute—most likely to clean his room, make his bed, you know, make things comfortable—so we took a seat, but it looks like planned sexual intercourse is about to commence.
“Yeah, sure,” Nichole says nonchalantly as she stands.
Eyes on me, Banner asks, “Are you just going to . . . sit there?”
“Don’t mind if I do,” I say as I lean back on the couch and cross one leg over the other.
“You don’t want to go home or anything?” he asks, looking far too confused.
“Nope, I’m good. I’ll just wait for Nichole. The couch is comfy, and if you can just direct me to the remote, I’ll drown out the inevitable moans.”
“Uh, yeah,” he says as he walks over to the TV and removes the remote Velcroed to the side of it. Huh, they don’t have a dining room table, but they have the wherewithal to Velcro the TV remote so it doesn’t get lost. What kind of household is this?
He tosses the remote, and I do a fine job of not even coming close to catching it. It hits me in the arm instead.
“Ooof, that will leave a mark,” I say. Rubbing my arm, I ask, “I’m going to assume what’s yours is mine in this scenario?”
“What?” he asks, his brow furrowed. The patience in this one is wearing thin. Bet he didn’t expect to bring home a hot date . . . and a squatter, but here we are.
“Am I free to roam about the cabin? You know, eat and drink what’s available? I mean, my friend will be offering you one hell of an orgasm tonight—she’s already done mouth stretches.”
Nichole smiles brightly. “I did.”
“So am I free to make myself at home?”
“Oh, yeah . . . sure,” he answers and then looks at Nichole. “You did mouth stretches?”
“Always come prepared is my motto.”
I stand from the couch and walk over to them. I place my hand on Banner’s arm and say, “She’s very bendy. Have fun.” I give his arm a squeeze and then offer Nichole a thumbs-up. “Muscles are popping.”
“Oh, yay.” She takes his hand and pulls him up the stairs as I head to the kitchen.
Surprisingly more open than I expected, the kitchen is shrouded by dark oak cabinets, tan speckled countertops, and one window that looks out into what I’m going to assume is a backyard. Can’t quite tell since it’s past eleven at night. Not a single dish in the sink, the counters are shockingly clean, which means either they don’t cook or they can actually clean up after themselves, and there are only two appliances in the kitchen. A coffee pot—nothing fancy, something you can buy at Target for twenty dollars on sale or snag for fifteen on Black Friday—and the most enormous toaster oven I’ve ever seen.
I walk up to it and pull down the hatch. “What does this hold? A whole loaf of bread at the same time? My God, where do you buy something like this?” I then try the fridge. “Would you look at that? Fruit and veggies.” I bend down and push around Tupperware with precut vegetables. “This is real Tupperware. That’s impressive. Ooo, a Capri Sun.” I snag a fruit punch and then shut the fridge door. “Food, where is the food?”
I open a few empty cabinets, which makes me think they really don’t cook here since there’s nothing to cook with, and then I stumble across some food.
“What do we have here?” I push past boxes of oatmeal, protein bars—hmm, maple donut, wasn’t sure anyone liked that flavor—and tubs of protein powder. “Typical,” I mutter. Normally, I’m a healthy-ish person who can appreciate a solid tub of whey protein, but not after a sweaty night of drinking and dancing in a bar. I need some snacking food.