Total pages in book: 108
Estimated words: 105815 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 529(@200wpm)___ 423(@250wpm)___ 353(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 105815 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 529(@200wpm)___ 423(@250wpm)___ 353(@300wpm)
“Pajama party?” I say on a laugh.
Lila pumps the air as they yell in unison, “Hell yeah!”
They whoop and I join them, emotion tugging at me as I take in the mylar balloons in the den. Amongst the Happy Birthday! ones, a few say Get Well Soon, Happy Graduation, and Happy Mother’s Day.
“We wanted a festive look. Bought all the balloons they had,” Lila says with a giggle. Pink and purple streamers crisscross the den. It’s a mess, no rhyme or reason, and I smile broadly.
The three of us met last spring at The Truth Is Out There. Lila works there with me, and Colette is a regular. Still finding my footing at Braxton, I was renting a room in a drafty old boarding house. They had an extra bedroom and asked me to move in.
Lila tosses her blonde hair over her shoulder. “I’ve got the good stuff tonight.” She twirls around, grabs a box off the media center, and opens it. She preens as if it’s the Hope Diamond. “It’s your birthday, bitch. We’re getting high.”
Colette grabs a jar of peanut butter off the coffee table, picks up the spoon stuck inside the container, and sticks it in her mouth. Her eyebrows waggle. She talks around the spoon. “We smoked one already.”
I laugh. Of course they have.
On Lila’s birthday, a few months ago, we got high. It was my first time, and I ended up with a terrible case of paranoia. I convinced them the police were after us with K9 drug dogs. We hid in our basement with the washers and dryers.
“Please, join us,” Colette begs as she drags me into the kitchen. “Look, I made nachos for your birthday, your favorite, and I have cupcakes from the Busy Bakery!” She waves her hands in a flourish around purple cupcakes. Ana is written in white icing on the tops. My throat tightens, my stomach pitching at the emotion.
“Don’t you dare cry!” she says.
“I’m not!” I say on a laugh as I wipe my face.
“Liar!” She opens the fridge and pulls out the prosecco. “This is a throwdown! Screw Donovan. You got us, babe!”
I laugh. Typically, recreational drugs don’t hold much appeal, but well, today…
Lila hums as she sets to work at the table, rolling the joint. Colette murmurs that she needs talking points for our conversations and grabs a notebook in case we forget our ‘revelations.’
I dash to my room and change into black leggings and a cropped Queen of Naps shirt. I scour my backpack for my copy of Lady Chatterley’s Lover, thinking we might discuss it during a high chat, but I can’t find it. Weird.
An hour later, our buzz hits.
I’m singing “Wonderwall” by Oasis on top of the coffee table. “I sound great,” I tell them, but Colette laughs at me from the floor. Lila goes to the front door then reappears with Chinese takeout that no one recalls ordering, but I suspect she’s messing with me.
We head to the kitchen. Leftover nachos and cupcakes litter the counters as we dig into the Chinese food.
Colette chomps on a tube of frozen chocolate chip cookie dough as I eat an egg roll. The mix of crispy flour and lettuce is freaking amazing. I dunk it in the sweet sauce and decide the color of the egg roll shell is the same as Donovan’s hair.
F him.
“Even birthday fiasco aside, Donovan and I are off,” I say. “It’s like, we’re circling this awful thing and don’t want to acknowledge it.”
“He’s stuck up. Let’s go beat his stupid Tesla with a baseball bat,” Lila says with quiet venom, looking fierce. “We’ll call an Uber, do the deed, maybe swing by Pizza Hut for a supreme on the way back.” She’s already grabbing the metal bat we keep in the corner for intruders.
“We have plenty of food,” I remind her calmly.
She swings the bat over her shoulder, and I giggle and take it away from her. “Simmer down, Lila. I know you’re pissed at him, but we aren’t going anywhere while we’re stoned—”
My words are interrupted by a deep voice.
“Anastasia Bailey is high. My, my, my,” a man says, dragging out the words in a low tone. He makes a tsking noise. “I need evidence. Haven’t blackmailed anyone in a while.”
8
We freeze at the masculine voice and collectively turn to the doorway that leads to the den. Lila squeaks, Colette blinks—and my mouth drops open. A piece of lettuce tickles my lip and I swipe at it, then shake my head to clear it.
Doesn’t work.
A massive, tattooed hottie is in our kitchen.
He holds up his phone. “Say cheese. Or egg roll. Whatever works.” Finished, he tucks his cell back in his pocket and leans against the doorjamb. One maddening eyebrow goes up as he smirks at me. “Hey, you.”
“Hey?” is my reply.