Total pages in book: 89
Estimated words: 84826 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 424(@200wpm)___ 339(@250wpm)___ 283(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 84826 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 424(@200wpm)___ 339(@250wpm)___ 283(@300wpm)
My solitude lasts for all of three whopping seconds.
“Thought I’d find you in here,” Weston says, coming through the door and walking to the pantry, where I can hear him rooting around noisily, like a squirrel digging for a nut. Or a bear digging through a metal garbage can.
Emerging with a bag of tortilla chips, he rips it open, stuffs a few chips in his mouth, and directs his attention back to me. “You aren’t in here hiding, are you? Cause that would be silly.”
I roll my eyes and take a swig of beer.
“Molly’s out there, and she brought a few friends she expects you to meet. That chick Abby that Blaze said you chased down the street is out in the living room.”
I choke on my beer and narrow my eyes.
Fucking. Blaze.
“What the hell were you doing chasing her down? Jeez, man, she’s best friends with Cece Carter—you know, Matt Wakefield’s girlfriend?”
Clenching my jaw, I grit out, “I did not chase her down the damn street.”
Weston gives me a patronizing look, like I’m some cuckoo cat lady and he has to talk slow so he doesn’t unleash the crazy. “All I’m saying is you can’t stay in here all night. You have to get out there and make nice. It’s your house; that makes you the host by default.”
I grunt and shoot him a dark glower.
“Now what are you getting all pissed about? Abby’s hot… you know. In a cute kind of way.” Weston snickers and stuffs more chips into his stupid fat face. As he mutters, “You’re too sensitive, bro,” chip pieces fly out of his mouth and drop to the floor. “Oophfs.”
Grabbing the second beer off the counter, I straighten to my full height and stalk into the crowded living room.
Abby
The longer I stand here, the wetter I get.
Wait. That didn’t come out right…
Sighing, the cup in my hand is jostled yet again as someone drunk bumps/dances/falls into me, creating another oh-so-attractive wet spot on the front of my shirt, and I cringe, afraid the shirt is going to be ruined by the end of this torturous night.
The shirt I was required to borrow.
Ambushed while trying to sneak out of my bedroom unnoticed, my roommates waylaid my escape with a different shirt then forced me to sit in the bathroom while Jenna curled and styled my hair. According to Jenna, and I quote: “Abby, if you’re trying to walk out of here dressed like a librarian, it’s working. But if you want Caleb to notice you, let me amp up the sexy-cute. Nothing trashy, just a boost. Trust in the Jenna System.”
By the way, in case you’re wondering, sexy-cute is an actual term Cecelia and I made up.
Definition:
Sexy-cute
/ˈseksē/kyüt/
Adjective
Too cute to be sexy, but too sexy to be innocent and boring.
Example: “Oh my gosh! Did you see Margaret? I thought she was such a prude, but that outfit she’s wearing is actually super sexy-cute.”
So, yeah. Sexy-cute. Get to know it.
Since I own too many basic cotton tee shirts, I was given (by Jenna) something to wear (of hers) before being plunked down in Jenna’s famous chair of torture and dolled up by the experts (Jenna).
Are you sensing a pattern here? She’s a tyrant.
Fortunately, my new roommate took my wishes to heart, and I was still recognizable when I gazed back at my reflection in the mirror; long hair down and flat-ironed straight, black liquid liner on my top lids with a hint of onyx mascara, shiny lip gloss with a hint of coral. Jenna has me trussed in dark skinny-jean capris, a skin-hugging baby-blue wrap shirt with a deep V neck, and a thin blue belt cinching it closed and emphasizing my waist.
It could have been considered sexy-demure had it not been covered in wet spots. Now it’s downright ‘wet tee shirt contest.’
Thank God for padded bras.
Molly looks down at the front of my borrowed shirt—the one now plastered to my chest—and raises her eyebrows. “You’re not going to want to hear this, but that’s actually a really good look for you.”
Jenna leans over and inspects the damage. “I’d say it’s an improvement.”
“Shut Up and Dance” by Walk the Moon comes blasting out loudly over the speakers, and Jenna bounces on her heels, shaking her wild hair as she shouts, “I freaking love this song!” and sings along. “I said you’re holding back, she said shut up and dance with me!”
My roommate tries grabbing my wrist, tries to get me to dance, but I’m wet and not in the mood, considering we’ve only been here for, what? Half an hour? Playfully slapping Jenna’s hands off my arm, I quickly gulp down what’s left of the warm beer in my plastic red cup, sputtering a little from the putrid taste of it.
Ugh, so gross. I hate beer.
So why am I drinking it?