I can peg this entire catastrophe on my incessant need to find a man. Well, that and my incessant need not to sound like a loser to Raven, my old college roommate who’s setting the advertising world on fire, jet-setting, meeting amazingly gorgeous underwear-clad men while I sit in a cubicle all day selling windows. Okay, I don’t actually sell the windows—I place orders, take stock, pick up the phone, and make sure the barista at Starbucks gets everyone’s coffee correct. Right there is the difference between Raven and me. We both spent four years at Whitney Briggs University majoring in business, both graduated with honors, and here we are three years later—on extremely uneven playing fields. But that’s beside the point. I spent the bulk of the morning exchanging spastic text messages with her because this just so happens to be the shittiest, shit, shit day ever. Like for instance, my shitty car needed a jump just to get me to the shitty urgent care clinic this morning. And now I’m on my way to pick up a prescription for this shitty sore throat—which up until an hour ago I thought was a complete work of fiction. But after that, I plan on commandeering this shitty day into port by way of crawling back into bed with a quart or two of ice cream. Cherry Garcia. Lots and lots of Cherry Garcia. The only bright spot in this day is the fact my landlord is finally getting around to inspecting that leak above my closet. No more moldy running shoes, no more sopping wet yoga pants, which means I’ll have to refresh my bucket full of excuses to evade the gym.

“Next, please?” The pharmacist tech leans over the counter before flagging me in. I’ve had my feet firmly planted on the courtesy mat while the sweet gray-haired granny in front of me got a refill for her gout. The courtesy mat itself consists of a pair of shoeprints with the words, Please, wait here. You’re next! Respect patient privacy. printed above it. Although the granny in question plagued with a merciless bout of gout also happens to be a bit hard of hearing, thus the amplified expository on the state of her dilapidated health.

I step forward to the counter and casually glance back before doing a double take as a tall, dark, and handsome knight in shining pharmaceutical armor takes my position at the plate. He’s somewhere in his twenties, about my age, within bedding range for sure. He has his light pink Polo on standby for margaritas with the collar up, and he’s exuding that whole eighties yuppie vibe I find so startlingly sexy. Damn. Why couldn’t he have stepped up sooner? We could have had a rousing conversation regarding our impending first date rather than me getting a brief yet comprehensive education on all things uric acid.

“Name?” the pharmacy tech barks, and I come to. She’s tall and wiry, and her hair is trying quite successfully to escape that bun she’s swept it into. Her glasses hang low on her nose, and they magnify her eyes the size of silver dollars.

“Harlow Hartley,” I say it loud and clear in the event the smoking hot collar popper has his radar up. He’s a preppy for sure, but who doesn’t like a spin in a spanking new Beamer once in a while? Emphasis on the spanking. I graze my teeth over my bottom lip and give a little wink his way. He perks right up and smiles wide, exposing a rather deep dimple embedded neatly in the base of his chin.

Dimpled chin. Huh.

I spin back around as the pharmacy tech comes back to the counter with a small white bag that looks every bit like it should be coming from a bakery rather than this treasure trove of diseases. Although, to be fair, this treasure trove of diseases happens to be planted smack in the middle of Kragger’s Grocery Store in the heart of downtown Jepson, just a few measly blocks from the disease-riddled hovel I call home. Have I mentioned Raven lives in a high-rise uptown? She has the world eating out of the palm of her gilded little hands, and she damn well knows it.

I check my phone to see if she’s responded yet. I told her all about the fact I called in sick with a sore throat, and my boss over at Windows-R-Us politely informed me I’d need a medical excuse to return to work—thus, the impromptu visit to the urgent care center. Only there wasn’t anything urgent about it. That whole sore throat thing was actually more of a hangover thing due to the fact I spent last night trolling the Black Bear Saloon, my old college hangout where I lost many a dollar trying to make the frat boys holler. It turns out the Black Bear is still brimming with frat boys, only now they all look like they should be running around on a middle school playground. How the hell did I get so old so fast, anyway?

“So, have you taken this before?” SALLY, as her nametag shouts my way, drones the words out as if they had the power to put both her and me to sleep.

“I’m sorry, what?” I straighten a moment, trying to keep myself from going horizontal.

“I said, have you taken this before?” Her voice rises several octaves the same way it did for poor Gout Granny. “Maxie Gel? It’s a vaginal ointment to treat bacterial vaginosis.”

A shadow appears to my right, and it’s Preppy Frat Boy leering at me with that come hither smile.

“Shit,” I hiss under my breath before returning my attention to SALLY, the bearer of bad vaginal news. “I’m sorry. There must be some mix-up. I saw the doctor this morning for a sore throat. I promise you, it’s the only part of me that he burrowed his fingers into.” I turn to the Greek god to my left and whisper, “Wrong orifice!”

“Whelp”—Sally demonstrates her strong command of the King’s English—“that’s what he gave you. This ointment needs to be administered for seven nights. Now, there are only five injectable applicators. You’ll have to reuse two of them. Be sure to clean them good with soap and water before injecting them into your vagina.”

Oh my hell. I shrink about three inches. My ears are still humming from the fact she’s left her voice at top volume. It’s becoming increasingly clear that deep down inside, Sally is a bitch from the bacterial circle of hell.

She juts her chin out. “Do you need the pharmacist to come up and demonstrate how to insert them?”

“Shit!” A bite of heat lights up under my arms at once. “No, for God’s sake, no.” I glance to the cute preppy who has suddenly decided this is a fine time to take a step back. I lean over the counter with a heated rage coursing through me. “I’m good,” I assure binocular eyes before she drops trou at the pharmacist’s command and shows me how it’s done.

“Are you sure?” She reaches down and hoists up a plastic model of the female lower forty-eight, and I die a small pink plastic vaginal death. As if her megaphone of a mouth didn’t echo throughout the four corners of the grocery store, she now has visuals for the hearing impaired.

I glance back and note the line behind me is swelling with ogling men of all ages. Figures. And to think, I actually hit a bar last night in hopes to find one of these mythological creatures.

I turn back to Sally and glare at her a moment. “I’ve used the aforementioned ointment before. I’ve actually used Monostet, so I’m familiar.”

“Oh, Monostet is for yeast infections.” She blasts those last two words through her vocal cords in the event the astronauts up on the space station hadn’t been clued into the sad and desperate state of my vagina just yet. “What you have is BACTERIAL.”

Dear God, talk into the loud speaker, why don’t you.

I give a few tired blinks as I struggle to hold together what’s left of my sanity.

“Oh?” I try my best to sound ultra-cheery, but that sarcastic scary bitch that lives deep down inside of me is about to unleash—and heaven help poor SALLY if she does, because that scary bitchy side of me loves to bypass the jugular and head straight for humiliation. “And here I thought I’d give up on my favorite sugary feast.” A forced laugh steams from me, sounding far more maniacal than it does cute ex-sorority girl. “Chocolate.” I turn to Preppy God and mock giggle. “I guess I’m back in business!” Whew. It looks as if that sarcastic scary side of me has decided to sit this one out. Lucky for both Sally and Preppy Frat Boy—and most likely me.

That dimple in his chin inverts ten times deeper, and on a whole it’s becoming obvious I have no way to read a dimple-chinned man.

“No, heaven’s no. It’s not from sugar.” Sally chortles along with me. “It’s from fecal contamination.”

Kill me.

“Usually wiping back to front.” She wags a finger. “Somebody doesn’t know how to wipe her bottom!”

Oh my dear God, kill her instead!

My body slaps with an insufferable amount of heat, and I can feel my cheeks ready to burst into flames—both sets.

“I assure you I know how to wipe my bottom,” I grit the words through my teeth, just daring her to challenge me on this. “I’m front to back all the way.” Throw me a fucking bone, Sally. Can’t you see we’re practically standing in the armpit of the Kragger’s Foods Frat? There has to be at least a dozen men circling the outskirts, suddenly interested in how this fecal contaminated chick flick ends. “And are you sure that prescription is for me?” My God, all the man did was run a swab down my throat.

“It’s for you.” She winkles her nose. “Well, this kind of infection could be due to sexual activity, too.”

“That’s it!” Ha! Redemption! I slap the counter so hard my fingers nearly snap off before turning to face my favorite preppy frat brat. “I have lots and lots of sex.” I shed a cheesy smile, and he grimaces in response. Oh, go to hell. “Loads of it,” I snip before turning back to Sell-Out-Sally here who has no problem roasting a fellow sister over the sexual flames. “I should have known it would come back to bite me in the butt so to speak.”

The lunatic ringing up my order sniffs. “Yeah, anal will do it every single time.”

Anal? As in the no-fly zone? Gah! Gah! Gah! Abort the mission and run like hell! Abort! Abort! Abort!

My entire body begs to dissolve in the boiling cauldron of sweat that my yoga pants have turned into. Good God, I’m going to forgo the Cherry Garcia and speed straight to the first cheeseburger drive-thru I see and eat my weight in animal fat. My humiliation has just hit DEFCON 1, and I need to bolt before Sally here tosses me onto another landmine.

I whip out my credit card and run it through the machine while Sally dutifully staples a pamphlet to the outside of the bag that cheerily reads My Bacterial Infection and Me.

“Lovely.” I snatch it from her as I toss my credit card into my purse in haste. I’m usually—ironically—anal about placing it right back in my wallet where it belongs, but at this point I couldn’t care less if I dropped it on the street and someone purchased a house with it. Right about now, I’d welcome just about anybody to hijack my identity—and my quite literal shitty bacterial infection, too.

“Remember”—she lifts a finger as I plot my escape—“no back to front sex for you, missy—at least for a week. And since you like anal so much, I suggest you use a condom.” She makes a face. “Things tend to get a little messy down toward the exit.”

I glare at her for an inordinate amount of time. Nobody in their right mind loves anal so much.

“Listen here, SALLY”—that scary bitch that lives deep inside of me is good and ready to unleash all seven circles of hellish rage on the poor, dimly-witted, goldfish-eyed, anal-loving freak in front of me—“nobody in their right mind loves rear play that much—or anal as you so indelicately insist on calling it. You are a dumb twat, and you should have your girl card revoked for embarrassing me like this in front of God, and Super Preppy, and a handful of random damn nosy Kragger’s shoppers!”

The crowd around me gasps. Sally gives me a few solid blinks, and I gird myself for a much-deserved rebuttal.

Come on, Sally. Make my day.

Her mouth falls open. “Oh, and if you get this prescription renewed here, you can get up to two dollars off your next prescription!”

“Great.” My voice pitches in that unnatural way it’s prone to do when I get my balls caught in a vise. Oh, wait. I don’t have balls or a vise. That must mean I simply hate Sally. On second thought, I think I just found my hairy nutsack.

“Coupon, huh?” I force a tight smile. “Well, too bad I don’t foresee racking up any frequent flyer miles with my vagina. See ya never!” I bolt from the counter as if my vagina just conducted a bank heist.

“Wait!” Preppy calls after me. “How about coffee? I hear it can take care of that rash!”

“Infection,” I’m quick to correct as if it were an upgrade. “And I’m sort of seeing someone.” I trot off to the mini Starbucks they’ve crammed into the heart of the bakery section while flaunting the aforementioned nutsack that suddenly morphed into the size of a refrigerator. As much as I’d like to hit my Honda and engage in the drive of shame, I’d much rather have a nice latte to restart my day on the proper trajectory.

And seeing someone? I guess if you count these five inner-vaginal applicators, I’m seeing five someones and two of them will likely make a reprisal.

Crap. I put in an order for my usual and scroll through my phone while I wait for my drink to magically appear. There’s a message from Lisa. Will you make Sunday dinner this week? The girls miss you like crazy!

I text right back. I’ll try!

If I’m not dead by then, I want to add, but don’t. Lisa doesn’t much care for humor of the cadaver variety. She’s my older sister by ten years. When our mother died, she took my younger sisters and me in. She’s the one who helped me get into Whitney Briggs University all those years ago. She’s also the one who helped me navigate the maze of financial aid apps. I had a few scholarships here and there, but I’m pretty much living to pay back my debt to WB society at this point. My younger sisters, Sadie and Everly, are in their junior and senior years of high school respectively and still live with her. Not to mention the fact Lisa has two little girls of her own, four and five, Karly and Kasey. And they’re all happily crammed in her tiny three-bedroom out in Friar’s Corner, a good two hours away with Lisa and her husband. I try to get out there at least twice a month.

I text Raven a quick rundown of the vagina monologues that just went on between my new best friend Sally and me, and I can practically hear her laughing through those all caps LOLs! she’s sending every three seconds. It’s nice to know my busy bestie can always find time to chortle at my many vaginal misdeeds no matter how far I sink into the depths of the Twatlantic.

“Harlow!”

I look up, fully expecting to find the barista smiling over my venti mocha macchiato, but instead I see Sally, the giant cock-sleeve herself who’s managed to escape her stall.

“Don’t take that!” She waves her frantic hands at me as if I had a leg lifted on the counter and was seconds from inserting myself with those toxins she just offloaded on me. “The doctor’s office called and said there was a mix-up. That prescription was meant for someone else.” She wastes no time in snatching the tiny white bag from my clutches.

“What?” The weight of a thousand vaginas sloughs off my shoulders. “Knew it! Ha!” I balk at the elderly man pushing up behind me. “My vagina’s clean enough to eat off of.”

His wife smacks him with her purse and waddles him away to safe pasture.

“So, what about my throat?” I spin back to Sally who’s currently got a death grip on that little white bag she snapped up.

“The office said your throat cultures all came back clear. I’ll be sure to refund your co-pay. Have a good day.” She starts to plod off before turning back around, that same stone-faced expression on her as if we hadn’t crossed that awkward vaginal divide to becoming fast friends. “And remember, when it comes to anal sex, a condom is still a good idea.” She takes off just as my latte arrives, and it takes all of the superhuman strength I don’t have not to hurl it at her.

“I don’t like anal sex!” I jump a little, begging the words to somehow stumble back into my mouth. Instead, I snap up my drink and barrel toward my Honda the way I should have to begin with. “No one does.”

No sooner do I land in my car than I get a group text from my boss, Lenny, the owner of Windows-R-Us.

Warehouse fire. Need to let a few of you go. So sorry. Message me if you’d like a referral letter. All the best!

“All the best? No, no, no!” I bang my hand over the steering wheel, and the horn goes off three times fast. I look up in time to see Preppy Frat Boy staring wild-eyed while loading his Beamer midflight. I called it.

I don’t bother waving him off with my middle finger. Instead, I hightail it back to my shitty apartment where, of course, there’s not a single parking space out front, no thanks to the overgrown bright orange truck that reads Abatement and Cleanup with a giant skull and crossbones slapped across the side as a part of its not-so friendly logo. I head in sans my Cherry Garcia, my vaginal suppositories, or a job—and get as far as the front gate.

“You live here?” A man with a hardhat squints down at me, looking every bit like Fred Flintstone come to life.

“I sure do. Look—I’ve had one hell of a day, so if you’re trying to sell me cookies, steak from the back of your car, or any form of deep-fried religion, I can’t even.”

“I’m not trying to sell you anything, lady. This is a notice from the city.” He points to a letter posted over the entry. “The landlord tried to replace some roofing damaged from the rains, and it turns out this place is loaded with asbestos. Insurance offered to replace all the drywall, but unfortunately, you’ll have to find someplace else to call home. This could take up to a year.” He hands me a white surgical mask. “You’ve got thirty minutes to get your necessary belongings out. The landlord will have to foot the bill to get the big stuff into storage.”

“What?” I stagger forward, staring at the white boxy building I’ve called home for the last three years. Okay, so I called it a hothouse from the armpit of hell, but still, it’s where I lay my head at night. And then it hits me. “Oh my God, I’ve done this. It was me who reported the leak. I’m a jinx.”

“You’re a hero,” Fred Flintstone barks back. “Now get in there and get out as fast as you can. I’d hate for you to lose a lung over it.”

“Holy hell,” I whimper as my feet spur me on unwillingly.

Thirty minutes later, I’ve saddled my tiny Honda Civic to the roof with bags and shoes, and the odd stuffed animal, looking every bit the batshit homeless lady I feared I’d become.

“Where to go? Where to fucking go?” I can’t go to Lisa’s. I slump over the steering wheel at the thought of rooming with my younger sisters in that tiny shoebox of a house. As it stands, I can only handle Friar’s Corner for a few hours at a time. It’s not even on Google maps for shit’s sake!

Think, think!

“Oh God, I can’t think.”

My phone buzzes and a part of me fears to look down in the event some other part of my life dissolved in the interim, but I do so with one eye closed, and as soon as I see it’s Raven, I perk right up.

I text her my latest, greatest debacle, homeless—no job will travel! Raven will know what to do. Raven always knows what to do. Three minutes go by, then seven. Oh God, I’ve done the impossible. I’ve stumped her. Doesn’t she realize the best solution is for me to room with her in that luxury apartment that she’s technically only seen the inside of twice?

I shoot another quick text in the event I hadn’t painted the clearest picture of my not-so-bright, can’t-even-afford-shades derelict future.

Just my luck, I have forty-seven dollars in savings!

There. That should erase any loose ideas of me hauling myself all over downtown Jepson in an effort to find partially hygienic shelter by way of my Visa card.

She texts right back. How about your sister’s?

“Gah!” I drop the phone to my lap a moment before I pick it right back up and begin texting away like a woman possessed.

There is no room at the inn. Lisa is out. How about a snazzy deluxe apartment in the sky—on the upper east side of Jepson? RING ANY DOORBELLS? I hit Send.

Subtlety never was my strong suit.

Again, more silence. Wow. Raven Masterson has been a sister to me ever since freshman orientation, and it seems this day I’ve overstepped my homeless bounds.

My phone pings. I’ve got an idea…

I text right back. Don’t keep me in suspense too long. My vagina is bound to fall off, or my car might spontaneously explode. It’s that kind of a day.

She pings back. Ha. Ha. Very funny. My roommate has malaria. It’s not a good time.

Malaria? Who the hell does her roommate think she is? Me?

She texts back once again. Okay, so—my brother Levi has a spare room he’ll gladly let you use until you can get back on your feet. He’s going through a bit of a rough patch right now, so make sure to stay out of his hair. And whatever you do, please, for the love of all things holy, DO NOT SEDUCE MY BROTHER!!! Things will get weird between us and I might have to initiate a beatdown. ;) Head over to The Sloppy Pelican in Hollow Brook tonight at seven and he’ll meet you there. Remember, keep your panties where they belong! Gotta run. Big meeting in 5. XO

“Brother, huh?” For all the years I’ve known Raven, she’s talked very little about her brothers. She has two, and that’s all I’ve been apprised of up until now.

“Levi,” I test it out on my lips. “Going through some stuff.” I scoff. “Aren’t we all, buddy. Aren’t we all.”

* * *

Omigod! Hollow Brook is glorious in springtime. I drive by Whitney Briggs for the hell of it and glare mildly at the Black Bear as if this entire debacle I’ve entangled myself in is somehow its fault. In all fairness, the fact I was burrowed in that frat trap last night is exactly why I was forced to call in sick, thus opening Pandora’s vaginal box and unleashing all unholy bacterial hell in my life and that of poor Lenny. I can’t help but think I’m the real reason they’ve had to shutter their window business overnight, no pun intended.

My all-time favorite stress song blares from my phone, “Key Largo,” and I lazily sing along while taking in the sights. When I get stressed out, I do two things: I bake brownies and I play “Key Largo” on a loop. Ever since I was a kid, I’ve played this song over and over when things get rough—and judging by the fact I’ve probably listened to this song more than the guy who sang it, you can say things have been rough for a while. My father tries to surface in my thoughts, but I’m quick to submerge him right back down again. There are some dark holes I don’t dare to tread near right now, and my father and whatever hole he might be lurking in is one of them.

I breeze down the main thoroughfare and up toward the ritzier, far more docile side of town where young sorority girls like me eschewed back in the day. I pass a bustling strip mall, and a laugh gets caught in my throat at what I see.

“Hallowed Grounds!” I honk as I pass it as if it were an old friend. Technically, it sort of is. I spent many a morning, noon, and night in that coffee-based establishment—at least the one on campus. I keep forgetting it’s an actual chain and not proprietary to the university itself. It’s easy to forget the finer things in life, like a decent cup of coffee, riding your ten-speed up and down the hills without fear of getting mugged right outside your asbestos-riddled apartment. Downtown Jepson leaves a lot to be desired. Correction, the wrong side of downtown Jepson leaves a lot to be desired. The right side is a conglomerate of high-end shopping and luxury tower apartments. That sort of describes Raven and me in a nutshell. She’s Raven Masterson—uptown girl, and I’m downtown Low Hartley.

I drive a little further, and the electronic map attached to my dashboard beeps like mad indicating I’ve hit ground zero. Yes, the Honda is ancient, but the first thing Lisa did once she cosigned for the steel cage is gift me a nifty little navigator that runs off my cigarette lighter.

“Wow,” I marvel as I pull slowly into the lot. I remember this place. It’s the old mining-inspired restaurant that went defunct not that long ago. Hollow Brook Mining, Incorporated. It must have bitten the gold dust, and in its place sits a giant six-foot tall, rather inebriated looking pelican smack on the rooftop. A rustic looking sign boasts the name, The Sloppy Pelican. “This place is adorable,” I whisper to myself like a loon and zoom into the nearest parking spot I can find near the front. It’s just after sunset, and already it feels like midnight. The lot is full, but nowhere near to capacity. I’m betting they’re still pretty new.

I check my look in the mirror, run a brush through my hair, and put on a swath of peach lipstick.

“Don’t seduce my brother.” I scoff at my best friend’s words as I claw my way out of my poor car that looks as if a fabric bomb went off in it. I catch one last glimpse of my hot ghost-like self in the driver’s side window—caramel-colored hair, long and flowing and in desperate need of a touch-up at the roots (but the night is forgiving), hazel eyes offset by copious amounts of gunmetal eye shadow that really makes them pop—and gives them a glassy appeal that makes me look a tad bit stoned—the former was a pro tip from one of my younger sisters who has secretly decided to skip Briggs and head to beauty school. I figure once she’s ready to launch, I’ll have a little sit-down with her on the many benefits of sorority living. There are some things in life that should not be missed, and living across the street from nine hundred frat boys happens to be one of them.

I wobble on my heels a moment. I’ll admit to sprucing up my attire a notch, but what the hell else was I supposed to do while driving around in my closet all day? These knockoff Jimmy Choos make my legs look as if they shoot straight into the stratosphere, and this little black dress is my choice accouterment when meeting my friend’s older, most likely hot brother. Face it, Raven is a looker with all that long black hair, those glowing blue eyes. If her brother is half as hot, I’ll have plenty of eye candy to keep me busy until I land back on my pointy stilettos.

A frantic redhead trots this way cradling a clipboard and an oversized purse that dangles from her wrist precariously.

“OhmyGodohmyGodohmyGod!” she screams into the night.

“Whoa.” I try to get out of her way, but she bumps right into me. “Is everything okay?” I sneak a peek past her shoulder in the event a madman is out to top this day off by way of planting a hatchet in my forehead. In that respect, she’s probably damn lucky she bumped into me.

“It’s him,” she pants just under her breath as she tries to juggle the chaos flopping in her arms. She seems about my age, mid-twenties, pretty in a socialite kind of a way. The extremely wealthy have a certain polished, understated but expensive as all hell look about them, and she definitely has that pretty, polished Prada-inspired look. “I can’t lose my job.” She grips me over the shoulders, her eyes spinning like pinwheels. “I love my job!”

“Be thankful you have one, sister.” I try to pry this job-loving loon off me, but she’s dug in deep. “Look, I don’t know how many mojitos you downed in there, but I’m betting a cab ride is in your future. You need me to make that call for you, sweetie?”

“I don’t need a cab. And don’t you call me sweetie.” She scrawls something at the top of the clipboard before thrusting it into my hands. “Just go on in there and they’ll know what to do. Call me as soon as you get out the door.” She scuttles me to the entry, and it’s all I can do to keep up without breaking my neck. Just as I’m about to plunge my elbow into her stomach and make a break from my new hell on heels friend, she spins me into her abruptly. “There’s five hundred dollars in it for you.”

“Now we’re talking.” I knew this day had to get better. “What am I doing?” If she says men, we might have to renegotiate. What am I saying? Lisa would kill me if I resorted to prostitution. But is it really prostitution if your one-night stand just so happens to leave a fat wad of hundies behind? I think not. That’s just poor finance management on his part.

“You’re a food critic.” She spins me back around and gives me a hearty shove toward the giant double doors. “Have all the free food you can handle, then meet me outside before you hurl. You’ll do fine. Oh, and your name is Lex, not Alexa, and for God’s sake, not Lexy. Don’t let them fuck with you like that.”

“Food critic,” I hiss as I sail in through the doors.

A tiny sigh expels from me at the sight of the establishment. It holds just as much rustic charm on the inside as it does the outside. The floors are a dark stained plywood. The furniture has the feel of an old haunted mine, and I am loving the rustic, rusty, dusty look of the place. The tables are spread out well enough, but it’s lacking one thing and I can’t quite put my finger on it.

A long bar sits to my left, and that seems to be where a major portion of the I’m-ready-to-drop-my-panties brigade has settled for the night. There’s an equal number of men ready and willing to rumble, and from the looks of how much everyone is enjoying themselves, a little rumbling and tumbling under the covers is sure to ensue quickly.

Dear God, it seems I’ve accidently stumbled upon the grown-up version of the Black Bear. Holy hell, if I had only rolled my old, worn-out tires in this direction last night, I might have actually had use for those vaginal suppositories Sally was trying to hawk me.

A couple of drop-dead gorgeous, bright-eyed, and glad-to-see-me grinning from ear-to-sexy-ear boys stride in my direction. Who the hell am I kidding? There’s not a boy in this fine establishment—those are bona fide M-E-N.

The one on the right looks vexingly gorgeous, brooding through that lewd grin he’s shooting my way, and those eyes—twin sparkling aqua pools of color I’ve never seen on another human being before. And yet there’s something wholly familiar about him. But that chest. The way his dress shirt stretches taut in all the right places has me salivating for whatever he has on the menu. And judging by the penetrating gaze—those fang-like canines all but ready to take a bite, I’d say we have each other on the carte du jour. Dear God, I am finally going to get laid tonight.

The other one’s not bad either, slicked dark hair, greenish brown eyes, and looks for days, but something about that linebacker next to him makes my stomach squeeze tight. My body breaks out into a spontaneous cold sweat, and my thighs start quivering as if waving him in like an air traffic controller. I glance over to the bar, and half the patrons are gawking this way.

God! It’s as if something monumental is about to happen. It’s as if the king had stepped down from his throne and is about to officiate me as his chosen sex slave. I’m about to be crowned queen of The Sloppy Pelican or…

The Pelican God expands his grin and takes my hand. “You must be Alexa. I’m Levi Masterson.”

My mouth opens, ready to correct him, and before the words ever tumble out, I choke on them.

Oh my shit. The Pelican God is Levi! This dark-haired Adonis is none other than Raven Masterson’s older, hella hotter brother. It’s no wonder she didn’t dare bring him into the sexy mix sooner. There’s no way in hell I would have—could have stopped myself from doing everything in my power to get this bad boy to yield on my mattress.

Raven’s battle cry comes back to me. And whatever you do, please, for the love of all things holy, DO NOT SEDUCE MY BROTHER.

I scowl over at him a moment because I can see her hiding there in his eyes.

“I’m—” The lie skips in my throat, and as much as I try to swallow it down, I can’t seem to stop it. “It’s just, Lex, actually.” Oh hell, what’s a little fun and free food among friends?

Those eyes penetrate me right down to my most intimate part, and it’s as if I’ve already hit a home run for the evening—the first of many I’m hoping.

His lips twitch as if he had plans for the two of us this evening that involved copious amounts of munching—just not necessarily anything of the food variety that they may have to offer. He smacks his friend over the shoulder. “This is my business partner, Brody Wolf. He’ll get you started on your first dish.” He gives his buddy a shove without taking those lucent lenses off me. “I’ll take you to your seat.”

“Business partner?” My heart skips a beat, and I’m not sure why. Most likely because Raven’s big bro is both dangerously handsome and reasonably financially stable—two qualities I never seem to find in a man. “You own the place?”

“That’s right.” His grin snaps back into position. It looks as if Raven left all of the fun little financial details out of our conversation. “And soon, I hope to own your heart.”

My entire body seizes with pleasure as if I’ve been waiting to hear those magic words all my life, but he grimaces just as fast as the words spewed from him.

“I meant to say stomach.” That charming smile bounces back to his lips.

“I think you had it right the first time.”

We share a cordial laugh as he leads me to a nearby table. My God! Wouldn’t it have been nice if he meant heart? Imagine the meet-cute we could share with our grandchildren one day. Grandma was a fucking liar, and Grandpa, well, he was fucking hot. This could be the start of something amazing, and if I’m lucky, something low down and dirty in about an hour or two.

This is going to be so much damn fun. Let the delicious games begin.

Levi sits me close to the bar where the aged coeds take turns scowling at me for snapping up for myself the catch of the day—two of them actually.

Brody brings out dish after dish, and I dive right in.

“Thank you!” It takes everything in me not to lunge headfirst into the clam chowder set before me in a bronzed bread bowl that’s making my senses faint with desire. Both Brody and Levi stand hovering on either side of me, and I glance up with a greedy smile of my own. “Didn’t Shakespeare once say there has never been a sweeter meal than that which you didn’t have to pay for?” Okay, so quoting The Bard has never come naturally for me, but I’m pretty sure every food critic worth her salt says a few words before basking in bread bowls full of carbohydrates.

Levi’s brows furrow before he flexes those dimples at me once again. “It’s all for you, Lex. Enjoy.”

I indulge in a quick spoonful and moan the ever-loving shit out of it. “Oh my Gawd!” I howl. “This is fantastic.” I take another loving, creamy spoonful before noticing a dapper, dark-haired dude in a full-blown suit squinting at me from the bar before he shoots a look to Levi and Brody. He’s probably just envious of the impressive spread laid before me. Either that or he thinks I’m a brazen glutton. He would so be right, but who the hell cares? Clam chowder for the win!

I gobble up the chowder as fast as I can and note the fact he’s still ogling me, his eyes straining as if I had somehow offended him. He nods Brody over, and they take off for the back, but I really don’t give a crap because Levi has just furnished me with a smattering of appetizers that span from hot wings to coconut shrimp and for the next ten minutes I’m in smorgasbord heaven.

Levi clears his throat and glances over my shoulder with a look of apprehension, so I follow his gaze only to find two of Hollow Brook’s finest dressed in blue headed this way, each with a hand secured over his weapon.

“Hello, ma’am.” The beefy one starts, and I nearly choke on a chicken wing. “It’s my understanding, you’re dining here tonight as a food critic. You mind if we see some credentials?”

Shit. I bounce back in my seat and accidentally take the tablecloth with me, sending the wings flying once again as Levi tries his best to juggle them to safety.

“All right, let’s go.” Officer number two lifts me out of my seat by the wrist. “I’m placing you under arrest.”

“No—it’s not what it seems!” I shout as he folds my arms neatly behind my back—much to the delight of those aging coeds seated at the bar. I open my mouth to say something in my defense and close it again.

Oh hell, it’s exactly what it seems.

I’m going to kill Raven for this lousy idea. Then I’m going to hunt down Lex and kill her for the other lousy idea. And lastly, I’m going to wring my own neck for being such a damn jinx.

Worst day ever, indeed.