“Okay, we’re completely off track here,” Jessica said. I blinked at her, feeling the world around me spin just a little. That last big swallow had hit me hard. “Does London even want a bachelorette party? I just can’t see her enjoying it.”
“Every woman wants a bachelorette party,” Kit announced. “And we’re gonna do this right. I’ll admit—I wasn’t on board with them together at first. I still get creeped out thinking she’s sleeping with Dad night after night . . .”
“Better her than the random girls he used to drag home,” Em said, wrinkling her nose. “Half of them were younger than me. One time he even fucked a girl dressed like a carrot. London’s a big step up.”
Jess and I looked at each other. Carrot?
Ask her about the carrot! I mouthed silently at Jess.
No fucking way, she mouthed back, eyes wide.
“Okay, so I can see two ways to do this,” Kit declared. “We can either do whatever it takes to make London happy or we can do whatever it takes to make Dad’s head explode, which would make me happy. So I vote for exploding his head.”
“The key is to plan something she’ll like that still makes his head explode,” I declared, falling into the spirit of things. “We should get her some strippers and then text him pictures of them grinding on her.”
“Could we use The Line?” Jessica asked, intrigued. The Line was a strip club the Reapers owned. I’d driven by it but never been inside.
“It’s a thought,” Kit said. “They won’t want to close it and lose money, but maybe we can get some sort of special ladies’ night event set up. I know they’ve done them before. That way they still make their money, we can have a party for London, and Dad’s head will explode. Everyone wins.”
I stood slowly, swaying.
“I need to pee,” I announced gravely, drunker than I’d realized. Should’ve eaten more crackers . . . except the last one I’d had tried to kill me. Sneaky little bastards.
“Do you need help?” Jess asked, and I started laughing at her joke, because of course I didn’t need help. What did she think I was, a preschooler? Nobody else laughed, though, and I realized she was serious. That was even funnier, so I started giggling even harder. So hard I fell down, setting all of them off, too.
“You sure you don’t need help?” Kit asked. I shook my head, which made me dizzy again.
“No, I think I can handle it.”
• • •
It took a lot longer to finish than I expected, mostly because I’d accidentally locked the bathroom door on the way in and then I couldn’t figure out how to unlock it.
I really needed to stop drinking out of Kit’s cup.
“So all he did was look at her and say ‘hey,’” Jess was telling them when I got back. Shit. She was talking about Painter again, possibly my least favorite subject on earth.
He’d been home from jail for two weeks now. I’d expected him to call me. Instead I’d gotten a text from Reese telling me to drop the car and the keys off at his house, then nothing. Not that I thought Painter owed me anything—of course he didn’t—but I’d wanted to at least thank him. (Okay, that’s not true—I wanted to jump him because I had a huge crush, but I also had some dignity. I would’ve settled for a quick “thanks” and maybe baking him some cookies.)
“Let’s talk about something else,” I declared.
“No, I want to hear this,” Kit said, slurring her words slightly. “You distracted me earlier, but now that we’ve got the whole stripper thing figured out, we can focus.”
I sighed, wondering if I could just strangle Jessica. No, probably not. She wasn’t very big, but she was wiry and unnaturally strong. It wouldn’t end well for me. Might as well give in to the inevitable and tell them.
“So, I met Painter last year,” I started, frowning. I really didn’t want to talk about this. “You know what? I’m hungry. Let’s order a pizza.”
“We’ll let you eat once you tell the whole story,” Kit said, scenting blood. “Spill it. I want to hear everything.”
This sucked. I didn’t even know Reese Hayes’s daughters very well—we’d only met a couple times before today, at holidays. I’d already felt like an intruder in Reese’s home, and with his kids there it’d been worse. On Christmas last year I’d left right after dinner for my dorm, making up some bullshit story about volunteering somewhere just to get away.
“So I met Painter last year,” I started again. “Only a couple of times, really. Then he went to prison and I started writing him letters.”
“I told her that was a bad idea,” Jessica said piously. “He’s not a nice guy, despite the whole loaning you a car thing.”
“That’s true,” Em chimed in. “Not nice at all.”
“Do you want to hear the story or not?” I asked, refilling my wineglass. Thinking about Painter was stealing my buzz. Couldn’t have that.
“Tell the story,” Kit said, narrowing her eyes.
“So when he took off for California he left me his car—it was just supposed to be for a couple days. Then he got arrested, he told Reese I could keep using it. I wrote to thank him, and I guess it just went from there,” I said. “Painter’s letters were so sweet, even though I only met him a couple times before they locked him up. He didn’t even treat me like a girl, not really. But he was so . . . protective. I felt stupid writing to him to begin with, but when he kept writing back I felt special. Then one day—right before they let him out—I got this letter from him saying it was weird I didn’t have a boyfriend, and that maybe I should be dating more. I felt like I’d gotten kicked in the stomach. I think I’d managed to fool myself about how big my crush on him was.”