My pussy burns again, a mix of arousal and alcohol prompting me to reply.
Me: I’m so embarrassed.
The reply comes immediately.
(775) 375-6825: Don’t be, sweetheart. We love that you sent us that. We’re glad you feel the same. It’s made our day hearing your voice again.
“What are you smiling into your phone like that for?”
I click off the phone screen and whip around, a spell of dizziness clouding my head from the sudden movement.
“Woah!” Natasha’s hands come out to steady me. “Careful. You’re gonna topple! Maybe you’ve had too much to drink.” She exhales. “Look, I’m sorry about before. I was out of order and?—”
I stick the phone in her face, blinding her.
“Jeez, girl.” She pulls the screen further back, eyes reading the text.
It takes her a minute.
Then, her eyes widen. “Melissa Strongbow!”
“Alright,” I slur. “Hit me with theI told you so.” I wiggle my hands. “Come on. Hurry. Get it over with so you can tell me what to type next.”
“First,” Natasha says, “I told you so. But second…are you kidding? You don’t take it all back by saying you’re embarrassed. That’s not flirting.”
“Then what should I do?”
She narrows her hazel eyes, thinking. “Get some water down you. I’m all for a great party, but you’ve exceeded your limit, and sober you is gonna be pissed at me tomorrow when she wakes up. Here.” She tugs my hand and guides me back inside, the bass crescendoing. “They have sparkling water on tap in this place. Can you believe it?”
Ping!
Another message from the bikers.
(775) 375-6825: Sweetheart, are you there? I would hate for you to leave us on read. We’re all together right now, Diesel, Cash and me. We’re all thinking about you.
Natasha guides me into the kitchen, pouring a glass of sparkling water. She sets it in my free hand. “Drink up.”
“You have to help me,” I say, ignoring the drink. “Come on. What do I say?” I shove the phone in her face. “They’ve been thinking about me.”
Natasha reads the message, porcelain face lit up by the white screen. “Maybe you should flirt with them tomorrow when you’re sober. I’ll give you some hints then.” She grabs my shoulder. “Trust me on this one, M. Don’t text a guy—or in your case, three—when you’re intoxicated.” Her face turns serious. “It’s bad enough saying the wrong thing to a college boy. We’re dealing with three middle-aged biker daddies here. Let’s behonest. They’re not studying law at college. They’re probably breaking it.”
Why does this increase the speed of my pulse even more?
“Have fun with them, by all means,” continues Natasha, “but do it when you’re sober. When you’re in control.” She begins to lift the sparkling water to my lips when somebody calls her over. Giving me a stern look, she turns around and leaves.
I take one sip of the stuff and spit it back into the glass, abandoning it on the kitchen counter. Vile. I need another vodka cranberry. Not this shit.
I make my way over to the drinks table, unscrew a bottle of something miscellaneous since there’s no more vodka, and top it up with a White Claw mixer.
I take one sip, wince, then shrug it off. Actually, the aftertaste isn’t that bad.
I take out my phone. Text back.
Me: I’m still heeree. Dont worry.
(775) 375-6825: Are you drunk?
Unable to stabilize my body, I crash into a wall, banging my head.