Page 3 of Alien Jeopardy
Ellison: I’m not into getting burned alive
Ellison: I have to finish up a few things and then you all can start heading over in maybe thirty minutes or so
The girls all respond excitedly, and I grin at the influx of messages I actually want to see before closing the old laptop trying to burn a hole through my thighs.
The things I have to finish up consist of making my tiny apartment look like a normal, functioning human lives here and not a hot mess of a hobgoblin.
And put something on my lower half that’s not covered in last night’s dinner stains.
I lift an arm, sniffing experimentally at my pit.
I need a shower.
Lily: Also we’re staying the night at your place
Lily: For safety
Poppy: PAJAMA PARTY
Poppy is relentlessly fashionable, an absolute bubble of style and optimism at all times. Compared to my general apathy and pessimism, she’s practically radioactively positive. I have a feeling even her idea for party worthy pajamas will be glamorous to the nth degree.
Ellison: Only if everyone else wants to do that
Lu: I’m in
Lily: One less thing to do after tequila. It’s a yes
Lily: You’re outnumbered, Ell
Ellison: I get the first margarita, then
Poppy: Deal
I’m pretty sure I have a cute set of shortie pjs around here. I bought them when I was last dating someone seriously and never wore them again.
Sighing, I stand up. My hips and knees pop at the same time, a clear sign I’ve been sitting for way, way too long.
Time to clean… both my apartment and—I sniff my armpit—myself.
We’re all only half watching the drama unfold on my TV screen. Likewise, the sixth pitcher of frozen margarita is only half full.
I close one eye, squinting at where it wavers on my newly cleaned coffee table. Well, now there’s tortilla chip crumbs dusting the surface and some congealed queso keeping it company, along with a few random Swedish Fish swimming towards the cheese blobs.
Might be six pitchers of Lily-made margaritas were way too many.
Or, based on the floaty way I feel, just the exact right amount.
Ha.
“Look, look, lookity look,” Poppy screams.
“Fucking hell, Poppy,” Lily says, wincing. “We’re all right hereeee, you don’t… don’t have to yell. It’sss too loud.”
It comes out garbled, and I snort in spite of myself.
Lucy tips back her head and cackles, some of her margarita sloshing over the rim of her glass. No salt, because we forewent that task after pitcher number two.
Shit. We are all really drunk.
