Total pages in book: 71
Estimated words: 70528 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 353(@200wpm)___ 282(@250wpm)___ 235(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 70528 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 353(@200wpm)___ 282(@250wpm)___ 235(@300wpm)
Insertion.
Picturing a penis going into a vagina has me giggling again like a fifteen-year-old boy, despite the fact that no one here can hear my brain to be in on my joke. Oh god, I must be drunk! It must be this moonshine—I have to stop drinking it.
No more drinks, Juliet, put the glass down!
But it’s so good!
No, Juliet, it’s really not. It’s garbage. You like it because you’re drunk-ish, not because it tastes good. You’re a wine snob, not a moonshine girl, get it together.
When in Rome!
I glance around—everyone around the fire pit seems to be drinking the same liquid, barring a few dudes drinking beer, Thad included.
Narrowing my eyes, I watch him smile at Mia, the ice around my heart melting—so far, he hasn’t been the horrible piece of crap I’d assumed he was. Then again, the only women around this weekend are older, middle-aged women with partners.
Still, he’s been attentive, funny and okay—seems to really genuinely love my bestie, and if what Davis says is true—that he’s only been seen out with socialites and movie stars for the sake of publicity and popularity…guess I can’t fault him for that. Not if he’s being paid and all to chaperone and smile for the cameras.
Can’t fault the dude for trying to keep his career game strong.
Maybe I should give the guy a break, and give Mia some credit: she’s not dated as many losers as I have. Her picker seems to be way better than mine.
A hiccup escapes my lips as my eyes go to Erik and Cookie; they’re eyeing up Davis, head together while they chat, eye fucking him if I’d ever seen anyone eye fuck.
Eyes, eyes, eyes.
I burp, covering my mouth with a giggle, marshmallow on my hands getting in my hair.
Drat. I’m making a sticky mess.
Totally forgot I had one in my hand, I move to load the stick with more marshmallows, watching the fire crackle and pop as I rotate my hand to get an even roast, wondering if I should start the entire thing on fire to speed up the process.
Crackle.
Pop.
Vaguely, I listen to the voices around me, and turn my head when Mia begins repeating my name. “Are you listening? Thad just asked if the s’more tasted good.”
I lift my head to stare at her boyfriend, a giant among men who’s waiting for my answer as if it means something to him.
“It’s good—yummy. I’m going to eat another one I think.” I pause, deciding that he’s doing his best to be inclusive and not ignore me. “What about you? Have you tried some?”
Another hiccup escapes my mouth, causing them to glance at each other.
“I’m allergic to chocolate, but I have had a few marshmallows,” Thad says—much to my horror.
“Allergic to chocolate?” I damn near hop out of my chair, aghast at the idea someone can’t eat chocolate for the sake of their health. “What does that even mean?”
He needs to explain it, slowly, in terms I can understand. A life without chocolate? What kind of life is that?
“Don’t know; just can’t eat it, otherwise I blow up like a puffer fish.”
“Realllyyy.” I lean toward him, fascinated. “I’m not allergic to anything. Once I ate almost an entire flat of strawberries after we went and picked them and got a rash all over my body, but that was an isolated incident.”
Thad laughs, his pearly, chemically whitened teeth shine in the firelight.
He is very handsome; guess I haven’t actually given him a thorough once-over before, not wanting to eyeball my best friend’s boyfriend. I’d die if she ever got the impression I was into him, so I never look directly at him.
Is that weird?
Okay fine—it is a little weird; but you get the reason I do it. The last thing I want is to be one of those women who drool out the side of my mouth because I’m judging his good looks the same way everyone else does.
So you judge him by the things you’ve read about him online or seen on television? That’s not cool either, Juliet.
Um, hello—could my inner voices please quiet themselves while I’m having a moment here?
Sheesh.
I peer into my near empty glass. “Who made this juice again?”
“It’s not juice, Juliet—it’s liquor. Lionel made it, remember?” Mia laughs, pointing to the man across the fire. Upon further inspection, I notice he has gray hair and a ponytail, the sort of dude you’d expect to be making moonshine, but probably as a hobby.
Lionel looks affluent, if one can look affluent while wearing plaid and torn up jeans.
He salutes us, raising his glass, smiling through his Santa-like beard.
“It tastes like shit, so why do I like it?”
“Because you’re drunk,” Mia states wryly, a half-smile on her pretty face. She pats me on the head. “There there, you should slow down.”
“Or eat more food,” Davis chimes in, handing me the pack of graham crackers and pulling out two. “Here, nibble on these.”