Total pages in book: 68
Estimated words: 64337 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 322(@200wpm)___ 257(@250wpm)___ 214(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 64337 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 322(@200wpm)___ 257(@250wpm)___ 214(@300wpm)
I curse.
“I can’t believe you forgot,” Wendy Ann says.
“Of course I forgot. I was focused on poker. Besides, they should have sent out an event reminder or something.”
“They did. Twice. It’s in the family group text.”
“I left the family group text,” I say, standing to pace around the deck. “You know I hate group projects.”
“A family text isn’t a group project, but I hear you. The notifications are a lot. But you didn’t have to leave. You can just mute the conversation and check in on it once every few days or so. That way you stay connected without being bombarded. So, what are you going to do about the Jello shots? Even if you make them right now, they won’t be firm by five o’clock, will they?”
“No, they will,” I say, dragging a hand down my face as I realize my lazy morning just took a turn for the hectic. “I won’t be able to do the layered ones with different colors, but I can get basic shots done. I just have to run to the store for supplies and get my ass in gear. Talk later, okay? At the party, I guess? And will you text me the exact time and address?”
“Will do,” Wendy Ann says. “And I’ll drop those old bell-bottoms you wore for spirit week in high school in your mailbox on my way to babysit Sara Beth and Phoebe.”
My forehead snatches back into a frown. “What? Why?”
“It’s a costume party, of course. I mean, it’s Christian and Starling, what else would it be? It’s a summer of love, hippy theme, and they wanted everyone to prepare a 1970’s soft rock classic for karaoke.”
I groan. “I mean, I’m all for goofy fun, but 1970’s soft rock? What is that even?”
“I don’t know. I’m going to google it while I’m watching the girls for Tatum. She’s taking a final for her early childhood education class. I should probably head out now, actually. She was hoping to leave early so she would have time to study without Phoebe latched onto her boob. She’s struggling with the whole weaning thing, I guess.”
“Okay, okay, head out and I’ll see you later,” I say. “And thanks for dropping those bell-bottoms off. I definitely don’t have time for costume hunting at this point.”
We say goodbye, and I launch into motion, toting Mr. Prickles back inside before throwing on sweats and a hoodie and jogging out to my truck. I hit the grocery store first, grabbing a few different kinds of Jello and face paint from the Halloween aisle, so I can draw a peace sign on my cheek later and call myself “ready to hippie.”
Then, I cruise over to the “bad” side of town—though Bad Dog really doesn’t have many rough areas inside the city limits—to the only liquor store open before ten a.m. I’m grabbing lemon vodka and dark rum when I hear a familiar voice from the next aisle over.
“Stop it,” the woman coos with a soft trill of laughter. “It’s not a big deal, darlin’. I don’t mind at all. You know I work just a few doors down from the liquor store. I’ll bring the vodka and other stuff over this afternoon around four, when I’m done with my last client. Tell your mama not to worry.”
I duck down, discreetly peeking through the space between the shelves, to see massive breasts straining the front of a bright pink sweater, and wrinkle my nose.
Yep, it’s Pammy, all right.
Pammy, who worked as a touring stripper for ten years before returning home to open a hair and tanning salon.
Pammy, who looks like she escaped from a 1980s rock video, complete with the orange tan and frosted blue eye shadow.
Pammy, who is as hyperfeminine as I am “just one of the guys” and who was spotted at Bubba Jump’s with Seven a few weeks back. Maybe it was a date, maybe it wasn’t, but my friend, Zan, told me Pammy was using Seven’s body like a stripper pole, and that there was zero room for the Holy Spirit between her boobs and his face.
Now she’s cooing to someone on the phone about dropping off vodka for his “mama” this afternoon…
I only know one person who would need the extra-large bottles she’s shifting into her cart—Bettie. Which means she was talking to Seven, and she just called him “darlin’.”
Fighting a wave of physical sickness, I stand up, pressing a fist to my mouth.
No. No, no, no! This can’t be happening. Seven can’t be falling for Pammy. I mean, Pammy is okay, I guess, but she’s not right for him. Not even close. She spends way too much time on primping and makeup and hair, and there’s no way she could rock climb or lift weights with nails that long. Working on fixing up motorcycles is out, too. She wouldn’t want to get her soft little hands dirty.