I shake a few bits of sawdust from my hair, attempting to ignore the grumbling coming from my empty stomach. With only three lights left to hang, I'm determined to finish before lunch. I don't care how bad my arms hurt, it's gonna happen. If I have to spend one more minute on this damn lift, I may start threatening to tear out Gale's limbs one by one.
"You sure you don't want to let me do that for a while?" I look down from my third step position, feet secure on the ladder, eyeing Gale crouched down near a small pile of screws and gold metal fixtures. The shine from the metal surface of the lift glares back at me, and I get a glimpse of his concerned smile. The blister on my thumb burns from the repeated peel back wire stripping motion, and my movements have started to become languid. Even the slightest bit of weight feels heavy at this point. Gale of course notices, but I have far too much pride to admit anything. Instead, I just take a moment to wipe my palms against the tool belt hanging from my waist, minding the worn, dusty fabric, thin from years of use.
"Why? You need a break down there, Hawthorne?" I tease. He shoots me a knowing half-smirk before lowering his head to concentrate on the task at hand. The sun shines bright through the stained glass of the tall church windows, and I'm well aware of the forty foot distance from where we are and the ground. You think it would spur on fear or caution, but it does none of that. If there's anything at all I've learned about this job, it's to never look down. And if you have to, don't do it for long.
"Come on Catnip. What're you trying to prove?" Leave it to Gale to make a statement without really having to make it at all.
I shrug nonchalantly, not feeling the need to express why. What's done is done, and I made a promise to myself a long time ago not to think about all the self-righteous pricks who talk down to me. I'm not some helpless broad who can't handle herself like the guys who come through here seem to think. They set out to give me mindless tasks that any idiot can do, and it seriously pisses me off.
Sometimes I feel a burn to prove myself, and I'll work twice as hard as the guys around me. Half the time, I know more than they do, anyway. Mostly though, I just try to keep to myself, and stay as asshole free as possible.
It usually works for me.
"Pfttt. I'm not trying to prove anything. I just don't want to listen to you whine tomorrow about how your arms are tired." Gale's grin widens in response.
We work diligently together for the next hour hanging lights, feigning off sweat and fatigue from the mid-May heat while the sun continuously beats in from the windows. My Carhartt denim jeans stick to the back of my knees without prevail. Even my socks are moist as I trudge along sluggishly in my heavy work boots.
When we finally break and take our lunch at Subway, I practically inhale my turkey sandwich.
"Katniss, you might want to chew," Gale just gapes at me from across the booth, motionless and awed. I give him my best fuck-you-face, not even the slightest bit embarrassed, even if I consciously begin taking smaller bites and significantly slow my pace.
"So... Madge wanted me to remind you about the party tonight. She thinks you're going to flake out." I force myself not to roll my eyes. How is it exactly that I could forget? Madge's fifteen texts in the last two days pretty much ensured that I couldn't possibly if I tried.
"Yeah. I got the memo," I mumble between bites.
"Well...are you?" He asks.
"Am I what?"
"Are you going to flake?"
This time I really do roll my eyes. "Gale, I don't know if you've noticed, but the club isn't really my thing."
"Catnip..." He protests. "You have to go; she'll be devastated if you don't. She considers you one of her best friends —"
I waste no time interjecting. "Don't you dare guilt trip me, Hawthorne. This is your deal. I'm not about to parade around in some dress so you don't have to hear your fiancee complain. This is what you signed up for, my friend. For better or for worse. Godspeed."
He looks at me with pleading eyes, but I'll be damned if I'm giving in. Besides, Gale is my best friend, not Madge. I mean, we were okay friends through high school, but if you put us in a room together by ourselves, the only relevant discussion topics we'd have are Gale and ice cream. And I'm pretty sure she only buys "frozen yogurt" because Heaven forbid she not fit in a size three.
Just the mere thought of a night with Johanna, Delly, Madge, and I barhopping and being hit on by a dozen drunken slobs makes me want to bang my head against a wall. That's not even mentioning the fact that Madge can hold her liquor about as far as I can throw her.
Then we have the dress situation... don't even fucking get me started on the dress situation.
"Seriously, don't do this to me. She'll never let it go, Katniss." His voice is so desperate. I hate it when he begs with those damn puppy dog eyes. It's like perfect manipulation, because I can't say no. And after all these years, he knows my soft spots all too well, which is exactly why I don't bother to look up from my turkey club, too afraid I'll lose my resolve.
A quick kick to my foot strikes me under the table.
"What the hell, Gale!"
"Don't ignore me."
"I didn't ignore you. I already told you, my answer is no."
"Catnip..."
I look up and immediately regret my decision.
"No, dammit."
"Please?'
"Fuck you, Hawthorne."
Madge is wasted, to say the least.
First reason being: she keeps sloshing her Jack and Coke all over the leather seats in the back of the limo, followed by insistent repetitions of sopping up the mess with the bottom of her sundress. Secondly, she has taken her shoes off and keeps holding them up through the open moonroof, waving them around while yelling: "I'm drunk, bitches!"
This is my life. And how the hell I even got here is just...beyond me.
It's kind of funny how time changes things. Madge was extremely different when we were in high school. She was the strong silent type, to the point where you wanted to be friends with her just so you could try and figure her out. But once we graduated and she realized just how powerful being beautiful could be, and a wild sense of confidence formed. She began leaving a trail of brokenhearted men behind her, pathetic tears and all.
It kind of makes me think about the irony in all of this. I was furious when Gale told me three years ago that he had a crush on Madge, for obvious reasons. I was more than positive she was only going to break his heart (because let's be honest, Gale is totally susceptible to getting his heart broken). And yet, it didn't, and it's weird because they fit together so well. Like, he has this quiet confidence, and her confidence comes with a touch of insanity, and yeah...
Actually, out of everyone, Delly is the one I pictured getting hitched first. She and Thresh had been together for six years, doing the whole hand in hand bit throughout the high school hallways. We all kind of figured it was meant to be. So when Thresh graduated from Ohio State in the spring and dumped her because he wanted to move away and she didn't, we knew that things were changing. Life was getting complicated. The two of them splitting was a rude awakening of just that.
Now, sitting amongst the three of them—Johanna, Delly, and Madge—it's pretty evident that her bachelorette party is going to be nothing short of a drunken spectacle. And well, I'm just living in it—copious amounts of alcohol and all.
A loud pop breaks me from my nostalgic daze. Foam begins bubbling over the neck of the champagne bottle in Johanna's hands.
"Hand me your glass, Everdeen." The hand not holding onto the bottle is out in front of her, gesturing for the glass next to me. I shake my head and she rolls her eyes, pouring the golden liquid into the clear container and handing it off to Delly, who sips quietly while peering over at us.
"Try not to be a pain in the ass and have fun tonight, alright? I know we're not watching bad TV in flannel pajamas, but you can make it one night without giving off your lesbian vibes." She puts an emphasis on lesbian, acting like she's waiting for me to make some kind of huge revelation. I roll my eyes, making damn sure she can see it.
"I hate to break all your scissor fantasies Johanna, but, we're never playing naked twister together. Sorry."
"In your plaid dreams, Everdeen." Johanna's hard eyes continue glaring at me from across the way while Madge jumps up and juts her head out of the moonroof again, shouting and waving her heels in the air.
"Guys, not tonight. Jo, be nice." Delly orders. While I appreciate the efforts, really, it's useless. Johanna is a twat; always has been, always will be. There isn't a thing she can say that will hurt my feelings.
"Whatever. I'm sorry if my normal Friday night doesn't involve going to Club Liquid and taking home the first swinging dick that pays attention to me."
Johanna glares. "Your Friday night doesn't involve anything but a vibrator and reruns of The Office, so you can save your bullshit for someone who cares."
For Madge's sake, I bite my bottom lip and hold my tongue. If we're going to make it through this evening without ripping one another's heads off, someone has got to be the bigger person. I certainly know that it's not going to be her. So, instead of rolling out another cheap shot, I give her a look that lets her know that the conversation is over only because I want it to be.
She blinks a few times, but doesn't say any more; just glowers at me and then fixes her stare down at her sleek grey dress. Delly dusts something off of the front of her ample cleavage, only to make me all the more aware of the lack of mine. Since we're all wearing the same thing, (insisted upon by Madge, which is the least brilliant idea she's ever had) you'd think that we'd look the same, but this is so not the case. My misfortunes include a completely loose breast area, a waist too small (which allows the fabric to continuously bunch in the middle), and a lack of proper curvature to necessary fill out the bottom half. Johanna also shares some of these problems, sans the stomach issue.
Then we all had to have matching high heels, which is just...no. I pleaded with Madge weeks ago not to force us into buying such ridiculously expensive and pointless outfits, but she was convinced it would create this amazing evening of camaraderie. Instead, I just feel like we're going to be on one of those gossip shows next to the Miley Cyrus. By the end of the night, the highlight reel is gonna be focusing on the short Everdeen girl whose tits keeps falling out of the top of her spaghetti strap dress.
I'm just grateful that she didn't force me to flat iron my hair like she normally does; the braid suits me just fine, thank you.
Delly laughs while looking over at the bottom half of Madge's body, her bare feet standing on the seat as she flails about through the moonroof. We go over a small bump which causes her to topple forward, causing Jack Daniel's and dark soda to spill everywhere. It just misses Delly and lands on the floor before us, puddling and leaving the strong smell of liquor behind.
This night is going to be a fucking nightmare.
Frustrated, I grab ahold of thin wrists and pry Madge down from the moonroof, settling her back against the seat until she's still. I so don't have the patience for this shit. We're not even at the club yet, and I'm already playing babysitter.
She protests when I remove the drink from her sticky fingers. "Pace yourself. Just until we get there, then I'll get you another one, okay?" At the rate she's going, she's going to be puking in the bathroom by midnight.
It takes a moment, but eventually she acquiesces, allowing a blissful moment of silence to linger through the air. That is, until we get closer to the bright lights, making it abundantly clear we're about to enter the city.
Downtown Cleveland is pretty gross if you ask me. We've all lived on the outskirts in the suburbs nearly our entire lives, and here's what I know: it's not safe, the streets are dirty, and the food sucks. It's not a destination I travel to willingly, and despite what everyone else seems to think, it's mundane. The bars are mostly overpriced with a ninety percent douchebag to women ratio. I've been spare changed more times than I can count, and quite frankly, the city lost all its appeal to me when the it decided to put up a giant billboard of Lebron James with his hands held to the sky like he's fuckin' Jesus or some shit (and no, the fact that people threw fire at it when he left does not make it okay now). But for Madge and Jo? They seem to never get enough. Every time I talk to them, it's another story about hanging out in the city, another photo of them wasted in a taxi or in a pub somewhere on Facebook.
"Let's go to McDonalds. I want one of those oreo flurry things," Madge slurs slowly while bringing her head down to rest against Delly's shoulder with heavy eyelids.
"Maybe when we leave the club," Delly answers between chuckles, patting her leg and looking at me with a smile. I'm beginning to think this venture isn't going to last very long.
The driver pulls up next to the curb next to a tall building with people lined around the outside, and the engine dies. I'm the first one out of the limo, eager to get out and breathe in the cool night air. I stand waiting, watching the rest of them follow suit. Only when Madge steps out, I look down and see one of her feet is bare against the warm cement.
"Madge...where is your shoe?" I raise my eyebrow at her, and it comes out a little more irritated than I meant it to. But I mean, seriously; who just loses their fucking shoe?
She bites her nails nervously and gazes at the curb with a guilty expression. "I— I... I don't know."
I roll my eyes and walk back over to the limo in attempt, my eyes skating the area to locate the missing heel. I look around the back seat, casting the bottles of liquor and champagne aside, peering under my workbag, even searching under the seats. Nothing.
"You've got to be fucking kidding me," I say, throwing my arms up and letting them fall to my sides with a loud smack. "Madge, you can't get into the club without both of your shoes."
"I must've lost it out the window..." Madge mumbles drunkenly.
"Fuuuuuuck," Johanna says softly.
"What should we do?" Delly asks the obvious, but very good question, considering the fact that it's already eleven. It would be a forty five minute drive back into the suburbs, should we be forced to do so. It would be pointless to drive all the way back for a whole two-seconds.
I cross my arms and look over at Johanna and Madge, awaiting to hear their suggestions.
Johanna suddenly lights up. "Everdeen, don't you have your work bag with you?'
I shrug and nod. I brought it just in case we ended up in the middle of a drunken escapade and I somehow got stranded here. I promised Gale to help him finish up a job late tomorrow morning.
"Perfect," Jo grins, and becomes walking over to the backseat area of the limo. I watch with curiosity as she pulls out my workbag, only to begin digging through its contents.
"What the hell are you doing?" My patience is running thin.
She pulls out a tan pair of steel toe boots, and then it hits me then. My face flushes.
"Ohhhh no. I'm not wearing this dress and my Carhartt boots. No fucking way."
"Come on! It's the only way."
I shake my head furiously. "Uh-uh. Not happening."
"Katniss, come on. Work with me here. What the hell else are we supposed to do?" Johanna's eyes seem sincere, but I'm still not impressed. Folding my arms across my chest and biting my lip, I stand there in contemplation, watching Madge struggle to keep her balance.
"Why are we standing here?" She asks, drunkenly. "Katniss, you promised me a drink! Let's go in." Madge nearly trips over her own bare feet, and I just don't even know anymore.
Delly and Johanna both wear an imploring look as well, and I can't help but think that I'm being sabotaged.
I hate everyone.
Maybe if you only concentrate on the top half of me, it isn't so bad.
The bottom half is a walking billboard for ridicule.
Bad fitting gray dress? Check.
Steel-toe, brown scuffed boots covered in paint splatter? Check.
My dignity? Nope.
TMZ would eat me alive.
For practicality reasons, I have to admit, it's a blessing. Heels are somewhere in my top ten list of useless inventions. Their main existence is to blister my feet and destroy my soul.
On the upside though, perhaps this is a good thing. I'll no longer be the recipient of awful pick up lines and one-night offers.
Madge grabs me by the hand and leads me to another area of the club where the music is loud, practically deafening. The bass thrums so violently, it's off-setting my heartbeat. I wade through the sea of cologne and bad mohawks, noting how as we get closer to the bar, the traffic becomes heavier. The air is thick and the space between myself and others is nonexistent. One second I feel a sharp bump into my shoulder, then an elbow to the back, and footstep to the front. Someone nonchalantly kicks my right heel without giving as much as an apology, and another douche spills cheap tequila on the side of my dress, which, had I planned on ever wearing again, would've bothered me far more. I find myself just turning my cheek, breathing in air that tastes stale and pungent, like liquor and warm citrus.
For a moment, I seriously question the sanity of the general public. People do this for fun?
Then I look over and spot Johanna and Delly behind me, both completely relaxed, and I wonder if I really am an old soul just like Gale always says.
Before I can protest, Madge has a hold of my hand, pulling me to the dim lit dance floor and swaying her hips to the music. I just stand there. "Come on, Katniss. You got this." '
Nope.
I refuse, utterly unwilling to do anything that requires movement, if only to save myself the embarrassment.
Some things in life we must accept, and I've learned to embrace my lack of rhythm.
But then Johanna and Delly join in and form a circle around me. My gaze scans the room to see if anyone's watching; they aren't. Attention seems to be diverted elsewhere, and I'm suddenly grateful for it. It's oddly comforting when someone's hands land on my hips and begins maneuvering me back and forth.
Everything is hot and dry, and the heat causes a glistening sweat to cover my skin. It's gross considering the array of bodies surrounding me, constantly bumping hips and shoulders. I watch two people grinding to some song from the radio—one I'll never know the name to if I have any say in it.
After five minutes, I'm practically suffocating.
"I'm going to get you that drink, Madge," I blurt. It's the perfect excuse and I mentally applaud myself for thinking of it. Before she can even say yes, I begin to push through the crowd. Hands fall away from me without question.
It's almost a relief that the line at the bar is exceedingly long. Every second I'm here is a second I'm not required to dance.
That's when I notice that nearly every eye in the room is focused not on the dance floor, but on the display behind the bar. Shirtless and confident men move with ease, exposing their chiseled chests and hard stomachs, muscles clenching with every movement. Denim blue jeans rest low on their hips, and I'm not sure I've even seen any man—let alone three—wear pants that tight.
Their charisma is awe-inspiring.
With probably more grandeur than necessary, there is a spectacle made when pouring liquor into the line of glasses on the counter; in swift actions they flip, toss, tilt, smile proudly, but look utterly fantastic while doing so.
What the hell is this, a bad Tom Cruise movie? Is this shit for real?
They're all in certain areas, stationed to the left, middle, and right. The one on the right is a little bit older, but handsome nonetheless, with sun-kissed skin and brilliant bronze hair. I don't doubt for a second that his charm isn't as useful as his looks; the females surrounding him hang on his every word.
The one on the left is definitely younger, but his demeanor is entirely ill-fit in comparison to his coworkers. When he twirls a bottle of vodka between his fingers, it's too pronounced, too mechanical. His short blonde hair and strong body are adequate, but he lacks the necessary qualities needed in order to make his job look like enjoyment rather than work, something the other blonde standing next to him seems to have perfected.
His face is so devastatingly perfect, I'm sure the gods wrote myths about him.
And god, I already hate him.
His smile is so unnecessarily wide, his shoulders so amazingly broad, his hair so ridiculously curly that I can't stand it. Even from a distance I can tell how blue his eyes are, which only makes me hate him more, because they're the kind that you can't just ignore; they have to be appreciated.
And when he winks at the girl leaning over the counter, only a foot from where he stands, all that male bravado and allure is nothing if not practiced.
I'll be the first person to admit that I'm angry about a lot of things: Dad dying, Mom becoming inept in his absence, Prim having to grow up without really having parents, having to deal with pretentious men in a field that never fails to remind me how much of a woman I am. But these are all things I can understand. I can pinpoint the faults in every situation with such ease that I never have to ask why.
But this rage, this anger that I have towards a stranger who I don't even know is...bothersome. Every time he grins and shows his stupid, perfectly white teeth, I want to slap the conceited smile off his face.
I stew in my thoughts, standing quietly, staring intently. I'm so caught up in myself that it barely even registers when I'm suddenly the first in line, completely rattled and unprepared to speak. His blue eyes are looking me up and down, taking me in. I blush when his gaze settles onto my steel toe work boots and a small chuckle escapes his mouth.
"Is something funny?" I ask.
Such a charismatic smile. "Not at all. What can I get you, gorgeous?"
Ugh.
Just order your drinks, Katniss. Don't say a word. "A Jack and coke, a whiskey sour, and a bottle of water."
"Gotcha," he responds quickly. It would be a lie to say I don't notice how his vocals are delicate and smooth. Decidedly, I hate that, too.
But when turns and grabs a bottle of Jack Daniels from the a high shelf, I can't help but look at his ass, which is so deliciously perfect in jeans that look to be painted on by God himself, my stomach twists. His back muscles glisten with a thin layer of sweat, making heat rise to my cheeks. When he turns back around, I feel filthy, exploited even, for thinking about how easy it would be for me to release the front button on those pants and tug down the metal zipper, imagining the sounds of the teeth popping one by one, exposing the V low on his hips...
The heat in my face descends much, much lower. Embarrassment creeps over me. Maybe it's been too long since the last time...? I can't even remember when that was. The rage burns, forcing me to quell the all-around anger bubbling in my throat with a dry swallow. Mainly because I can't decide what I want to do more—ravage or smack the shit out of him.
In what feels like seconds, he places two drinks down in front of me and curls his lips into a smile. "Who's the water for?" He asks.
"Me."
"Thought so." He looks so damn pleased with himself.
"What's that supposed to mean?" My eyebrows narrow in on him
"You just seem like a water kind of girl."
Not wanting to give him the satisfaction, "That's pretty presumptuous. Just because I don't feel like paying ten bucks for a shitty drink?"
"Whoa, lady. How do you even know if it's shitty or not when you haven't even tried it?"
"Yeah. I'm not gonna take my chances."
He laughs. "How about this? Let me make you something, and it'll be on the house. You like it, you can come back again." He beams proudly.
"No thanks," I practically scoff.
"Come on...live a little. It's free."
"Yeah, no. I'm good."
"It's a Friday night. You look like you could use some fun," he teases.
"Excuse me?"
"Liquor makes everyone better looking..." It almost comes out like a jingle when he says it, and I really don't know if he's referring to me or other men.
I just really wish he'd stop talking. He's so much better looking when his mouth is shut.
"Are you dense? I just said no like three times."
His eyes change a little bit. They get softer, maybe. "Alright then. $16.75."
He's infuriating.
As I'm digging money from my bra, he stares half open with a stupid smile. "Nice," he comments.
I don't have my usual pockets. It had to go somewhere. "Dude, what the hell is your problem?"
"Nothing," he laughs. "You don't get out much, do you?"
Asshole.
"And what makes you think that?" My tone is a bit icy, but it's meant to be as I throw a twenty down on the counter.
"I don't know. You just seem... like..."
"What?" I ask, impatiently.
"It just seems like you're a little on edge," he finally answers.
"Well, I'm not."
"Could've fooled me."
"Whatever," I reach for the drinks, ready to walk away.
"You know, you should come here more often," he offers, stopping me in my tracks with a suggestive smile.
Does this shit normally work for him?
"Yeah, no. Might want to use that line on the chick with the big tits behind me. She looks right up your alley." I turn my shoulders, giving him a view of the half naked blonde, and he looks back and smiles.
"Eh, that's Cato's alley."
"Oh, I figured the whole Malibu Barbie thing worked for you. My apologies." Sorry I'm not sorry.
"Yeah, I'm more of a feisty brunette kinda guy."
Oh, I see what you did there.
He's good. Really good. Great eye contact, patient, gives you his full attention. I'm almost convinced that maybe he isn't so bad. Perhaps I've just misjudged him. It's possible he isn't an egotistical bastard who's entirely in love with himself.
It's then that I notice the foot of a tall girl behind me, tapping impatiently, and I know that I've taken up too much of his time. Just as I'm about to take the drinks in hand, his voice perks up.
"Maybe I can show you sometime," he says, reaching forward and grabbing a hold of the end of my braid, his fingers kneading the soft hairs for a moment before giving it a gentle tug. There is nothing subtle about it, no way for me to even sit and pine or question the motives.
It's hard to say what I feel first: shameful embarrassment at the fact that I know he's an asshole, yet I still want to see him naked, or pure rage. Because somehow, I've given him the impression that it's okay to place his hands on me.
Which is why I believe my next movement is an involuntary reaction. I don't think twice when I bring my hand up and forcibly slap him across his stupid, flawless face. I'm actually quite proud of the hard sound that follows through, and he immediately brings his fingers up to graze the reddened area, never once making eye contact with me.
"Fuck, that hurt."
"Good," I mutter at him angrily. Wide eyes from behind stare at me, and I seriously take a moment to decide whether or not I want to shout some inhumane profanities at him, but I figure he's been insulting enough for the both of us. I choose the latter instead—grasping our drinks from the counter and walking away, still seething.
By the time I find Madge, Johanna and Delly again, I've stopped shaking, but I'm still really fucking mad. If they notice it though, they don't say a word. Then again, they're probably used to seeing me pissed off, so nothing has changed. Somehow, that fact is calming.
I lean against the wall, watching the three of them mucking about, laughing and dancing freely. They want me to join, but I'm too busy replaying the encounter over and over again in my mind. Did he see me staring? Did I say something that gave me away? Even if I did, he still had no right. He could've treated me with some amount of dignity.
"Katniss, are you okay?" Delly asks, leaning herself against the wall next to me. I didn't even see her come over.
"Oh yeah, I'm fine," I assure her, though, unconvincingly. She knows just as well as I do that I'm completely flustered.
"Did something happen?" She asks. I shake my head, not wanting to talk about it. I know she wants to ask again, but she doesn't; rather, she just pushes herself up and walks back over to Madge, and I keep looking at the clock on my phone, thinking about how this night can't possibly end soon enough.
And then I hear Madge and Johanna's voices carrying through the bar, howling as two of the bartenders begin to gain their footing atop of a long table only a few short feet away. The first thing I notice are his eyes, and then the baby oil covering his chest. Of course, I watch, quite mesmerized by the curvature of his back muscles, the caliber of his design. When the music starts, he moves fluidly, hips gyrating, hair sticking to his forehead. And as if he knows he's fulfilling all my fantasies, I watch darkly as the top button of his jeans pop, displaying soft, curly blonde hairs. More howling ensues.
"What the actual fuck?" It comes out before I can even stop it. Delly blinks and just starts laughing.
"Oh, come on. You know he is like, insanely hot."
"Insanely rude is more like it," I correct her.
"Still hot, though."
"I'm sure his mother is very proud," I joke, but never take my eyes off him. Not once. Otherwise, I'd miss how you can barely make out his pelvic bones as he sways his hips, or the way sweat trickles and settles onto his shoulder blades. The tight pants allow you to see every ridge, every crevice. I let out a shaky breath and my imagination runs wild.
"I think she's too busy swatting women off of her front porch to think anything," Delly says with a chuckle. I laugh, but the thought makes me uneasy and my stomach flips. I hate it and I hate him.
"She should be swatting him. What an asshole."
"Did he say something to you?" She asks curiously.
"Don't they all?" I tell her.
When the song ends and he jumps down from the table, I feel his gaze upon me just for a moment. My heart thrums loudly against my chest cavity as we lock eyes, and then he becomes a blur in a sea of people.
The music stops, someone yells last call, and I watch wistfully as people escape into the night. I check the clock on my phone for the umpteenth time, thinking about how I've been awake for the last eighteen hours; fatigue and hunger are gnawing at me.
Delly yawns as well.
"Maybe we should go find them..." She nods in agreement.
If Madge was drunk at the beginning of the night, I have no idea what she is now.
Jo has her hands wrapped tightly around her waist, attempting to keep her standing despite their significant height difference. Her hair is in disarray, shoes completely gone from her feet. What looks to be remnants of a strawberry margarita stain the front of her dress.
Well, at least I never planned on wearing those shoes again.
"We need to get her home," I state the obvious, and their faces all say the same. After coming to a general consensus that the night is over, it takes all three of us to get Madge into the limo. The minute her back falls against the seat, she's out.
Johanna laughs lightly at the sight."Well, looks like she got the night she wanted."
"I'd say so."
"But she didn't get a lap dance," Delly warns.
"Can't we just lie and say she did?" I suggest, mainly for Gale's sake. Well, a little bit for mine, too; I keep having horrible images of some guy in a banana hammock thrusting his bulge in Madge's face, and it makes me throw up in my mouth a little.
"Maybe Gale will give her a maintenance man fantasy lap dance."
The images move to Gale in nothing but a tool belt, and everything seems wrong in the world.
"Can we discuss something else, for the love of God?" I plead in a tired voice. There is nothing more in this world that I want right now than my bed.
Johanna perks up. "Speaking of God, let us give thanks. Praise whoever created those jeans. Holy fuck."
Definitely. All hail Calvin Klein.