Page 77 of Sex, Lies, and Margarita Mixes

Bree and Sasha nod. Mari Lynn says, “You dislocated your knee, flashed the DJ your whole ass coochie, and still scored us all free rounds.”

“Fair point.” I grin.

I did flash the DJ my entire vagina and I did get us multiple rounds of free shots.

Mari Lynn rides first. She stays on five seconds, lands in a heap of panties on full display and boobs practically escaping her corset top. She pulls up her top and grins as she flips off the operator, before bowing like a champion.

Bree does it next—lasts seven seconds, flashes a titty, and somehow looks incredibly hot.

Whitney refuses to get on it. And Sasha says she needs more alcohol before she gets on.

Then, they start a chant and the whole place joins in.

“Roxy! Roxy! Roxy!”

“Damnit.” I down another shot, hand Mari Lynn my earrings, and strut toward the bull. “Fuck it. Let’s do this.” Hiking up my dress, I straddle it and mutter, “Y’all better have my bail money ready. I’m about to get arrested for indecent exposure.”

Seven seconds in, I’m holding on with sheer spite. Ten seconds in, my dress is dangerously close to betraying me. Twelve seconds—the bull jerks. My thigh cramp betrays me, and I fly. I land on another bachelorette wearing a sash that says “Bride to Be” and my boob full on slaps her in the chin.

“Ow,” she groans.

“Sorry, honey.” I fix my girls, peel myself off her lap, and pick a chicken wing out of her hair. “On the bright side, it’s good luck if a stranger’s boob says hello to your face.”

She blinks, clearly wasted. “Is it? You have really great boobs.”

I snort. “Sure. I read it on Pinterest. And thanks, babydoll.”

Mari Lynn is dying laughing and filming the entire thing.

Whitney hands me a margarita. “That was fucking majestic, Rox.”

I bow. “I try.”

We hit up three more bars. Somewhere between the second and third, a group of cowboys start following us. They’re not threatening, just interested. We are not.

“Are we being stalked?” I ask Mari Lynn.

“Probably. But they’re kinda hot.” She retorts.

“That’s not the criteria for safety.” I reply.

“Babe, we’re in a neon bus with a penis balloon. But the driver is also our security and he’s been with us the whole time. We’re safe, girl. I wouldn’t endanger myself or y’all.”

Shit. She is sort of a celebrity. I didn’t even know we had freaking security.

At the third bar, someone dares me to karaoke.

I flip through the book and pick “Before He Cheats.” Obviously. Carrie is a queen.

I drunkenly and publicly dedicate it to Danica and Holden and Mari Lynn films it to add to our socials. Obviously. By the second verse, the entire bar’s singing with me.

Mari Lynn waves a lighter in the air. Bree dances on the table-top while Whitney makes out with one of the cowboys and Sasha tries to control her face.

The cowboys buy us shots.

“I feel powerful,” I declare, slamming my glass down.

“You are powerful,” Mari Lynn yells.

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