“No. It’s a rule,” I inform her as I toss the dress on the bed and peel off my hoodie. I drop it on the floor. “Thou shalt not covet thy best friend’s brother or thy best friend shalt barf.”
Off goes my white tank top, and I peel the gym shorts down my legs without inhibition. After years of locker rooms, stripping in front of my friend and teammate isn’t much of a big deal.
“Thou friend has eyes in her head, and he’s hot as hell so shut your mouth.”
I snort in reply as I slide the purple dress up my legs and twitch it into place. It’s stretchy and strapless, and far too bright. My mother always taught me never to hate, so I’m going to say that I really, really dislike purple. It stems from my childhood fear of Barney the Dinosaur. He was my favorite plush toy, and I took him everywhere to the annoyance of my brother, most especially because Barney was afforded certain privileges, like his own candy treats after dinner, which would go to me, naturally, because poor Barney couldn’t swallow them. One day Nicky showed me a picture of Barney on the internet, complete with red eyes and wielding a bloodstained axe. I still live with the trauma and the fear of the color purple. Purple means Barney, and Barney is bad.
I cast my gaze down to take in the dress with a shudder. I don’t wear a strapless bra beneath the stretchy fabric simply because I don’t need it. My curves are less than remarkable. My lifelong membership in the itty-bitty-titty committee is firmly, and unfortunately, entrenched.
“Turn around,” Leah commands.
I turn around and she tugs at the back hem until it sits in its proper place, which is alarmingly close to my butt cheeks.
“Some guy is gonna eat you up tonight, Elliott. You look delicious.” She says it with glee, and only because she has Hayden, who’s like the asshole antithesis, so she doesn’t know any better. Even still, my thoughts turn immediately to the male who recently inhabited my room and I repress a shiver.
“I do?” Turning to face her, I fold my arms and arch a brow. “Better than I look doused in chocolate syrup?”
“We should go,” she says quickly and spins to leave.
“Not so fast,” I growl ominously and make a grab for her strawberry shirt. It’s my luck that it’s floaty and fans out behind her. I seize a fistful and she halts in her tracks, wary of it tearing right off her body.
“It was awesome!” Hayden shouts from somewhere inside the apartment. By the echo I’m guessing it’s the fridge and he’s got his head stuck in it. Leah’s boyfriend has a colossal frame that comes with a matching appetite. The dude needs constant fueling just to breathe. “Leah showed me photos!”
I gasp loudly and let go of her shirt, my eyes rounding in horror at her betrayal. “You posted the photos?”
“I only showed them to Hayden. Honest. I wouldn’t post them online. Come on, Jordan,” she needles and starts petting my shoulder. “Everyone gets hazed. It’s a rite of passage. And it was only a little bit of syrup.”
“A little bit?” Hayden shouts again, and the sound is muffled because his mouth is no doubt full of food. The fridge door slams shut, and the tinkling sound of jars and bottles reaches my ears. “Where did you even find that much? And can you get more? I want to lick—”
“Okay, Hayden!” I yell back, cutting him off because I don’t need to hear about him licking Leah’s body parts. Not ever, but especially not right now, not while my skin feels too tight for my body and my mind is entertaining wild fantasies about a guy I’m supposed to be tutoring.
After sliding on a pair of gold-colored sandals, I get Leah to help me with my makeup. I know where my talents lie, and facial enhancement is not one of them. My attempt at sex kitten eyes usually makes my face look like a cat attacked it with a black marker. At least Leah knows what she’s doing.
When she’s finished, she picks up a plastic bag off my bed that’s full of something suspiciously flamboyant.
“What’s that?” I ask warily, because the bag appeared atop my sheets as if Leah conjured it with evil magic. She reaches in and plucks out a pink lei, slinging it around my neck before I can protest. I’m then handed a pair of sunglasses, the plastic frames a matching fuchsia with dark lenses. “Um … What the hell?”
Leah puts on her own lei in eye-gouging yellow, slides on sunglasses in the same color, and grins brightly. “It’s a beach-themed party.”
“Seriously?” I groan and jam the pink glasses on my face, because at least then I can barely see her.
“Yes, really. Be thankful we’re not in bikinis. Hayden vetoed that idea,” she mutters.
We arrive at the party and a shirtless Hayden, wearing only board shorts and flip flops, slings a heavy bicep over both mine and Leah’s shoulders.
“Look at me with two dates,” he says with a leering grin, maneuvering us toward the house. “It’s like I’m on the set of The Bachelor.”
“Just remember who gets the rose at the end of the night, He-Man,” she says with a mock growl and elbows him in the side. With a fortifying shot of vodka already under our belts, it causes the three of us to stumble slightly.
Hayden’s arm slips from my shoulder and he wraps Leah up, lifting her off the ground with ease. She squeals and tugs awkwardly at the hem of her shirt where it rides up her torso.
“Always you, beautiful,” I hear him murmur in her ear.
His expression is soft, the way it always is when he looks at her, and while I don’t begrudge their loved-up relationship, it’s so very intense it sometimes makes me feel like a lonely, solitary island.
“Save the humping each other for when you get home,” I suggest as we make our way up the front path.
Pulse-thumping music blares through the open doorway where two young, burly guys stand sentry. Bouncers for a frat party? That’s either really smart, or they’re really elitist. I’m hoping for smart. If it’s one thing I cannot stand, it’s snobs and bullies.
“Don’t worry. We’ll find you someone to hump too, Elliott,” Leah replies, her voice brimming with encouragement.
As if on cue, a guy dressed in a French maid outfit complete with frilly knickers bursts from the front door, whooping. Two guys race out giving chase, both of them engulfed in thick white foam from head to toe. With their eyes barely visible I’m surprised they can see, and I realize they actually can’t when one of them stumbles and goes down, face planting in the grass. He doesn’t get back up.
I turn raised brows on my friends. “Maybe him, you think?”
A bikini-clad girl comes trotting out to bring up the rear, drink in hand. She teeters on her heels, waving her arms to get balance when she comes to a stop by the prone foam-covered form on the lawn. She crouches and leans into his ear, yelling, “Are you okaaayyyy?”
He doesn’t move.
Bypassing the pair, Hayden leads us inside, through hordes of partygoers, until we arrive in the backyard where a keg stand is set up in the corner. Strings of green-colored lights adorn the fence line like a parsley garnish, and plastic blow-up palm trees decorate the lawn. An inflatable slide takes pride of place in the center. I watch a guy barrel down it face first, smacking into a pile of shrieking girls huddled in the little pool at the bottom.
Leah hands me a Solo cup of beer, and I take it, knowing I’ll be sitting on it all night. I don’t doubt it’s cheap, nasty stuff that will leave me disgustingly bloated. I take a small sip, grimace, and a mechanical surfboard set up opposite the inflatable slide catches my attention. It’s nestled in a bed of sand and being ridden by a beefy, shirtless guy dressed in a Baywatch lifeguard outfit. In one hand he holds a cup of beer, his arm outstretched so it doesn’t spill.
The crowd surrounding him chants, “Hassel-hoff! Hassel-hoff!”
He’s doing really well until he gets shoved off by a guy wearing a yellow grass skirt and a coconut bra. Everyone cheers when Hasselhoff staggers and falls over, his beer tipping over his face and chest.
“Really?” I rip the sunglasses from my face so Leah can get the full brunt of my glare. “This is your idea of good night out?”