CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
Sarah
I’m having one of those rare nights when I feel pretty. You know, the ones where your makeup—specifically an attempt at creating smoky eyes—doesn’t actually look like a toddler loopy on Benadryl applied it to your face. I haven’t had any unfortunate wardrobe malfunctions to speak of, either, so that’s a total win in my book.
Not to mention, these shoes. Sigh. The shoes Jack bought for me along with the tiny clutch purse are the icing on the cake.
I’d also like to point out that I deserve a huge pat on the back along with a double high five for not being that girl with her cell phone out, glancing every two point five seconds to see if the guy has messaged her.
But it did cross my mind. Once or twice.
Ooookaaay, fine. Maybe a hundred times, but who’s counting?
Tonight, we’re barhopping as Maggie completes her bachelorette party scavenger hunt assigned to her by Ry’s twin step-cousins, Molly and Masey.
Oh, wait. They’re his step-cousins but “twice removed,” whatever the hell that even means. In my book, either you’re a cousin, or you’re not; there’s no in-between.
I can also confirm that by my second drink (I’m such a sad lightweight when it comes to drinking), I’ve given up on trying to tell them apart and have begun to call them “M” individually and together “M and M.” Luckily, they think it’s cute. Judging by the number of feather boas they have draped around their necks (five each, in case you were wondering because “no one can ever wear too many boas”), the way the corners of their eyes are, in fact, bedazzled, combined with their favorite conversation topics of Perez Hilton and what he’ll report on next, the “on the edge of your seat” debate topic of whether One Direction will ever reunite, and their recently “learned” benefits of swallowing semen, I’m ready to put my beverage straw to good use and gouge myself in the eyes—and possibly eardrums, as well—within an hour.
Maggie’s far too sweet and tries to partake in their conversation a bit. All seems fine and dandy—dun, dun, dunnnnnn—until M and M have a few too many buttery nipple shots and miraculously scrounge up a “legit stripper” named “Magic Mikey.”
Right. And I’m a legit porn star named Jenna Jamestown.
Magic Mikey proceeds to try to display his skills, jiggling his leather-clad ass all around where we’re seated before hovering over Maggie’s lap. It’s all fun and games at first until he contorts himself in a way which brings his crotch far too close to my best friend’s face.
“Okay, thanks! Um, that’s enough.” Maggie carefully backs her chair away from the man.
Unfortunately, he suffers a syndrome some guys tend to have around women in bars or dance clubs in which they have total delusions of grandeur. These delusions are triggered when a woman offers a polite denial to any of the following, which, in turn, is interpreted as the woman playing hard to get:
a) They offer to buy you a drink.
b) They insert themselves suddenly—and rudely—into your conversation with your friends.
c) They invade your personal space on the dance floor and proceed to grind their junk all over you like an animal in heat.
Then they take it as a sign to try harder and continue with their above actions. This is what clearly plagues Magic Mikey.
“Yo, Mikey.” I pinch the guy’s ear between my finger and thumb and yank hard enough to get him to move in the direction I want—away from the vicinity of my best friend’s face. “Thanks for the dance, but my friend has reached her maximum crotch-to-face quota for the evening.” My sugary sweet smile along with finally releasing his ear gets through to him.
Rubbing his ear, he eyes me warily before his gaze flits over to the M and M twins. “Think they’d be up for some fun?”
“Probably. No, scratch that. Definitely. Just woo them with talk about Harry Styles or bedazzling or—wait for it—how healthy they’ll be after swallowing your semen tonight.”
Just kidding. I didn’t really say that to him. But I reeeeeallly wanted to. Instead, I told him he’d have to ask them.
Yeah, I know. I went the responsible adult route. And it was painful as hell.
Within thirty seconds flat, as I confer with Maggie about heading to the next bar, M and M swarm us.
“OH. EM. GEE!” one of them exclaims.
In case you’re thinking I’m making this up, nope. Not even.
“You’ll never guess what just happened!” The two of them squeal the way teenage girls do over Justin Bieber.
I gasp melodramatically. “I’m dying to know, girls!” Maggie elbows me, trying to mask her snicker which the twins, thankfully, don’t pick up on.
“Magic Mikey asked us to go home with him toniiiiight,” they answer in unison with their high-pitched, sing-song voices. “And he lives with, like, five other guys!”
My head snaps to look at Maggie with wide eyes. “Did you hear that, my friend? You know what this occasion calls for, don’t you?”
Maggie stares at me warily. “Um, no…”
Abruptly, I hold up both hands, wiggling my fingers and turning to the twins. “Spirit fingers!! Woohoo!” The twins totally dig this move and mimic it.
I think it’s safe to say they love me.
“We hate to leave you on your special night, Maggie, but—”
“But Magic Mikey’s semen is calling.” I don’t know how I say this without laughing. It will remain one of life’s biggest mysteries, I’m certain.
Flashing a pleading look at my best friend, I add, “Surely, you understand the urgency of this matter.”
Maggie covers her mouth with her hand, and I instantly react, putting my arm around her shoulders and tugging her close to me. “Go,” I tell the twins, patting Maggie’s back as if I’m comforting her, “I’ve got this, girls.”
As soon as they disappear in the crowded wine bar, I give a final pat on her back. “All clear.”
Maggie lifts her head, wiping tears of laughter from the corners of her eyes. “Sarah!”
“What?” I smile innocently. “They’re going to have the best night of their lives, thanks to me.”
She shakes her head at me and checks her phone. “Ry and the others are at the whiskey bar two blocks over.” Raising her eyes to mine, she arches an eyebrow. “Feel like crashing their party?”
“Is the Pope Catholic?”