Cav didn’t even try to follow me.
It’s just one more thought that joins those on shuffle in my brain as we reach cruising altitude and the jet’s Wi-Fi kicks in. The static has died down, and now I feel . . . empty. Hurt. And the hurt is filling in the emptiness faster than I expected.
After digging into the bag of clothes Creighton stashed in the bedroom at the back of the jet, I change out of the dress I wore last night. The dress I wore before I gave up that last slip of my virginity . . . to a man who lied to me from the day we met.
Great judgment, Greer.
I mentally apologize to the anonymous owner of the dress as I stuff it into the tiny garbage can of the jet’s bathroom. I wish I could shed all of the hurt so easily. But no, there’s only one solution for that—alcohol.
I push open the door from the private bedroom to the main cabin where Creighton and Cannon are seated across from each other in wide tan leather seats. Each of Creighton’s jets seems to be nicer than the last, but I’m not in the mood to appreciate the well-appointed interior with its rich leather, dark wood, and brushed silver accents. No, I’m in the mood to appreciate the liquor cabinet.
Both men watch me as I walk directly to it. I ignore Cannon’s question about whether I need anything.
The only thing I need is in my hand. A fifth of Grey Goose. I don’t even need a glass. On a whim, I grab a can of cranberry juice to chase it with, not to mix.
“Is that really a good idea?” Creighton asks, his tone surprisingly condescension-free.
“It’s the only idea I have right now. Drinking until I pass out and forget the last couple of weeks sounds perfect.”
Creighton doesn’t object.
“I grabbed your purse too, on the way out,” Cannon says, jerking his head toward where my bag sits tucked under a seat.
With my free fingers, I snag that too. “Awesome.”
I lock myself back into the cabin and turn on my phone. After it didn’t work the first few days in Belize, I decided to free myself from constantly checking it and decided to enjoy being disconnected by turning it off. My battery is still at sixty-seven percent, which is plenty for my next task.
The Wi-Fi signal is strong as I log on to my Skype account. Unannounced Skype calls are the devil’s work; you just don’t do that to a girl. But Banner will have to forgive me because this is a serious situation. I don’t know what time zone I’m in, but I decide to risk it anyway by tapping on her name.
Moments later, my best friend’s face fills the screen. “Where the hell have you been? And if I weren’t so damn worried about you, I would’ve made you call back in five minutes when I didn’t look like a survivor of the zombie apocalypse.”
Banner’s hair is wild, sticking out in all directions. Eye makeup that must not have come off completely last night is smudged under her lower lashes. I don’t even know what day it is.
“Did I wake you?”
“Nah, I’m laying here wishing I could quit my job and run away with the circus. I hear those strongmen can deliver quite the pounding.”
Against all odds, a laugh bubbles up inside me. This is exactly what I need—my best friend and some booze.
I situate my phone against the stack of pillows on the bed and hold up the bottle of vodka in front of the screen.
“It’s five o’clock somewhere, right?” My voice is faux cheerful, and tears gather at the corners of my eyes.
Banner doesn’t miss a thing. She shoves up in bed and shakes her finger at the camera.
“If he so much as hurt one hair on your head—or anywhere else you inadvisably have hair—I’m gonna kill him.”
I shake my head. “I don’t want to talk about it. I want to get hammered and I need my best friend. We gotta go shot for shot or I’m never going to get enough down to forget this.”
Banner’s face crumples. “It was that bad?”
I nod.
“I’m sorry, babe. Let me get my supplies and I’ll be right back. Don’t go anywhere.”
The picture on my screen bounces as Banner carries the phone with her to the kitchen. Her bright red silk nightgown obscures the picture until she sets the phone up against something on her kitchen table.
“One more sec. Gotta get the good stuff.”
She’s back in moments with a matching bottle of vodka and a shot glass. “Okay. I’m not saying I’m not gonna puke, but after last night, I can use a little hair of the dog.”
Something occurs to me. “Do you need to go to work?”
She shakes her head. “Nope, going to e-mail them to tell them Fernando the Brazilian Strongman and I are running away to Rio where he’s going to keep me so well fucked, I won’t be able to walk, let alone work.”
I tilt my head and study her face. With a choking laugh, I say, “You really did go to the circus, didn’t you? Oh my God, you fucked a carny?”
Banner’s eyes dart sideways, telling me she was lying about “hearing” that strongmen can deliver a good pounding. “I got sick of the techie guys at work. I needed a man with arms bigger than mine. Preferably bigger than my thighs. I’m not apologizing for my walk on the carny side. It was awesome. The all-you-can-eat elephant ears were a bonus.”
I cover my face with both hands and peek through my fingers. “Oh my God. Where the hell did you find a circus in Manhattan?”
This time her gaze darts to the floor and her cheeks flush.
“Banner?” I drop my hands and pin her with my best tell me right now look.
Her voice is a mumble when she next speaks. “Jersey.”
Of course.
“And why aren’t you still in the strongman’s bed?”
I need to hear more. Preferably the whole story, because at least Banner’s life is more ridiculous than mine, and it has a shot at distracting me from everything I want to forget.
She coughs and speaks into her hand. “What was that?” Lowering her hand, she admits, “They had to pack up and drive to Pennsylvania. No more strong cock for this girl. It’s heartbreaking, really. Fernando was amazing. I didn’t understand a single word he said because my Portuguese is nonexistent, but who needs words when you’ve got an eleven-inch cock with the girth of jumbo summer sausage? My pussy may never be the same again . . . but at least I’ll have the memories.”
She finishes on a wistful note, and I’m so damn glad that my best friend is absolutely nuts.
“I love you, B.”
“Love you too, girl. Now, uncap that bottle and let’s get day drunk.”
I twist off the top and lift the bottle to my lips and chug. The vodka slides down my throat in a cool rush. Smooth. Silky. Deliciously mind-numbing.
Best. Idea. Ever.
Banner regales me with stories of the strongman, and I work on blocking out every memory involving Cav. She doesn’t ask for details because she’s that kind of friend. The kind that knows instinctively that I wouldn’t be swilling vodka like it’s water while sitting in the back of my brother’s private jet unless something had gone sideways in the worst way possible.
Or at least, I thought she took the hint that I didn’t want to talk about it. But no, my sneaky best friend decides to wait until I’m five shots in and my capacity for lying is nil.
“So, what the hell happened? You were here and the gossip rags slapped the label of Cav Westman’s hot new girlfriend on you, and then you freaking disappeared. I about lost my mind worrying. I stormed your brother’s office, and Cannon told me you were safe but laying low, and escorted me out of the building. Nothing else. I’ve been waiting impatiently for you to call, and now you call and want to get wasted. You gotta tell me what’s going on, woman.”
“Can we shelve this conversation for later?”
“Nope.” Banner pops the p. “Spill.”
I take a deep breath and give it all to her in one fell swoop. “Cannon shoved us in a plane and sent us to some tiny island off the coast of Belize where we fucked and ate and laid in the sun for the last however many days until Creighton showed up to drop the bomb that Cav . . .” I pause because I haven’t shared the mob connection with Banner, and I doubt Creighton would want me to. Quick thinking has me changing my words to something vaguer. “Well, he’s been lying to me since the beginning. About everything.”
Holding up a finger, Banner grabs the neck of the bottle of vodka and pours another shot. “Get ready to chug, girlie, because that deserves more liquor.”
I lift my bottle in a toast and pour more cool vodka down my throat. One shot, two shots . . . maybe more. Who knows at this point? All I know is that the bottle isn’t empty yet, and I’m still conscious.
When Banner slams her shot glass on her table, she crosses her arms in front of her and adopts a serious expression.
“So he broke your heart . . . but did he break your ass?”
Thank God I’ve finished swallowing because I would have spewed vodka all over this silky duvet and the screen of my phone.
“Jesus, B. Really?” I open my mouth to protest that he didn’t break anything, but she keeps going.
“It’s an important question. And I’m already getting drunk and it’s not even ten a.m., and therefore I deserve an answer. Are you still a back-door virgin?”
Glaring at her through the Skype connection, I flatten my lips before I burst into drunken giggles. “I can still feel the twinge in my ass, if you really want to know the truth.”
Banner’s eyes get huge. “No. Way. You did it! My little girl has finally grown up and taken a cock where no cock has ever gone before! This deserves to be tweeted. We must memorialize it on the interwebs.”
Grabbing up her iPad, she types furiously.
“Uh, no way in hell are you tweeting that. It’s my news.”
I know I’m making a huge mistake as soon as I reach for my phone and minimize the Skype app in favor of Twitter. And yet I don’t care. It’s probably the vodka fueling this poor decision making. And I mean probably as in definitely.
“I’m not saying anything about my ass, but the world should know that having a big cock just means the guy is an even bigger dick.”
Pulling up the infamous @GreerOneBadBitchKaras Twitter account that helped my ad go viral, I compose a masterpiece of a tweet. A Twitter-piece, I decide to call it.
I mumble to Banner as I tap out my 140 characters of awesomeness. Damn, vodka makes me just as creative as tequila.
Size doesn’t matter if it just means you’re an even bigger dickhead. #BigDick #KissMyAss #NeverAgain #GreerOut #NoCavDo #FuckUVeryMuch
Reading it out loud to Banner takes three tries because I can’t stop laughing. And if there are tears sneaking out of the corners of my eyes, they’re totally from the laughter. I refuse to admit anything else.
“Do it!”
I hit TWEET before I can second-guess myself or attempt more creative hashtags.
My notifications blow up within seconds. Whoa. Apparently, ever since I hooked up with Cav and the press started linking our names, my Twitter following has really grown.
I check out my profile, taking a second to give a nod of approval to the picture Banner chose when she helped me set it up. Followers: 1.2 million.
Uh-oh. A niggle of doubt creeps through the vodka-driven safety cocooning me. The retweets and likes climb in number.
“Uh, Banner. Did you know I have 1.2 million Twitter followers?”
Her eyes round hysterically. “Say what now?”
“One point two million,” I say, repeating the words very, very slowly.
“Holy shitballs. Cav’s going to get the message, that’s for damn sure.”
The lock turns, and the door to the bedroom flies open and slams against the wall. I spin around to face the door, leaving my phone propped up on the pillow.
Creighton, my dear brother, is wearing an expression that would not only frighten small children, but armies of small countries.
Oops.
He holds up a phone, its screen facing me. “What the fuck are you thinking? Cannon and my PR team follow this asinine account on Twitter, and in the last two minutes we’ve gotten four calls between us that you’ve decided to exercise poor judgment. So again, I ask, what the fuck are you thinking, Greer?”
Searching my liquor-soaked brain for any kind of explanation, I lift the bottle instead. “This is good vodka.”
Creighton’s expression turns even more thunderous. He reaches out and yanks the bottle from my hand. “Enough.”
From far away, I hear Banner’s voice.
“Whoa, big brother. Don’t get your boxers in a twist. Wait, do you wear boxers? Briefs? What about that sidekick of yours? His are always shoved straight up his tightly clenched ass cheeks. You might want to round up an underwear-retrieval operation for him. It’s probably damaging to his health, and most definitely damaging to his scrotum. Scrotum. What a weird word.”
I’m too drunk to cringe at my best friend’s priceless monologue. Instead, I grab my phone off the pillow and point to the screen. “She has a valid point.”
“Hang up now. Delete the tweet. No more booze.”
Turning the screen back to face me, I wave at Banner. “I think the party just ended. I’ll fill you in later.”
“Okay, hope your ass feels better. Maybe you need a medium-sized cock next time. You can’t give up on anal yet!”
This time, I do cringe. That’s something my brother never needed to hear.
“’Bye.” I wave again and tap the screen to disconnect before looking up at Creighton sheepishly. “Can you maybe pretend you didn’t hear that—”
“Already bleached from my memory. We’re never discussing it again. Now, delete the damn tweet.”
Cannon’s voice comes from the main cabin. “It’s already been retweeted over seven thousand times. Can’t put this cat back in the bag, but you need to delete it anyway.”
“Seven thousand times?” Shit. Bad Greer. Bad vodka.
“Motherfucker. Jesus, Greer. You know how to get people’s attention. Now, come on. I can’t trust you alone anymore.” He snatches the phone from my hand and wraps his fingers around my wrist to pull me off the bed.
As I follow him out into the main cabin, he tosses my phone to Cannon. “Delete it. Do whatever damage control you can. Fuck, shut down the goddamn Twitter account.”
I open my mouth to protest, but snap it shut when both men look at me like I’m a particularly troublesome child. Which I suppose I kinda am. I suck.
And I’m hammered. Instead of sinking into one of the leather chairs, I lie down on the couch and reach underneath for the blanket that’s always stowed there in these jets.
When I’m covered, I mumble, “Wake me up when we get home.”
Sleep has almost claimed me when Creighton says, “Oh, Greer. You’re not going home.”