Page 5 of Dirty Roulette
“She’s pretty hot.”
“Yeah...” I text Payton, asking where she is, knowing she’ll leave me on read, and if she responds, she’ll lie to cover Charlie’s ass like always. “Let’s stop at the house so we can change. I reek.”
“Sure... but uhh, have you ever thought about hooking up with her?”
I curl my lip under two front teeth to hold in a chuckle. “Dude, shut up, and drive.” I point to the road while a pair of blue opal eyes sparkle in my memories.
Chapter three
Payton
Most eighteen-year-old girls roll down windows and blareWAPby Nicki Minaj. Speaking of the devil, a rusty Cadillac blasts the familiar song next to us. Not while I have anything to say about it though. We’re stuck at a red light, and I can’t help it. I lean over to crank up the volume as Charlie slaps my hand.
“No, you need to behave!” She wags a finger at me. I don’t listen and turn that bad boy on full blast. “Hey! Hey!” she yells as I crawl over her lap. I crank down the old-school style window, then glue myself back to the passenger seat, pleased with my choices while Charlie gapes at me.
A Latina girl with acrylic nails sharp like talons puckers her lips. She hollers over and points a finger at us. “What’re you listening to, girl?”
Another girl emerges with chocolate skin and leans out the rear window, tossing lengthy red braids behind her. “Girl, I like what you playin’!”
Charlie’s jaw drops and mouthsO.M.G.She glances over with her goofy, embarrassed smile.
“Ask her!” She points a thumb at me.
“Emo’s not dead, bitches!” I wave my horns at her.
“Every time I hear this, I gotta sing along!” the girl with caramel skin shouted.
“That means it’s good!” I unbuckle, climb over the armrest, and weasel under Charlie’s stiff arms to poke my head out the window, screaming the lyrics toWhat’s My Age Again?by Blink-182.
“I need some of that white-girl music in my life!” giggles the other girl in the car as Charlie finally gives in and lip-sing along with us.
The light flashes green, and Charlie slams on the gas pedal. We shriek as she floors it. My head still sticks out the window, receiving a gust of wind to my face. I slink back into the passenger’s seat, untangling myself from Charlie, and we laugh so hard my stomach starts to hurt. Tangled hair thrashes its wrath at my cheeks and I’m eating it.
We ride side-by-side through the next several intersections with the Cadillac, matching each other’s speed, before turning in opposite directions when we reach the freeway. Streetlights smear the sky and ten minutes later, we exit and park in a neighborhood with cars lining the street.
Music thumps and cheers drift out from the backyard. I stare through the windows at the flashing lights inside. People pour through the front door. With the looks of it, this place is begging for cops who are just sniffing around for something to do.
I spot several back-lit shadows sashaying down the sidewalk toward the house. The vile plastic Barbie emerging from the center of them is none other than Brittni James – Gray Canyon University’s cheer captain, and the queen bee of Cheer Phi. Her perfect blonde hair whips back and forth. She’s even wearing the infamous velvet hot-pinktracksuit I swear went out of style before my birth. I want to vomit. Her car keys twirl in her hand as she locks the yellow Ferrari that her Daddy bought.
Her two pack members strut right behind her. There’s Autumn with her red locks twisted in some braid, hazel eyes, and God’s gift of the biggest rack. Then there’s Naomi, the annoying dumb blonde with a classic bob cut and tanned-golden skin. Their sickly-sweet giggles echo around them as they walk up the porch steps and disappear into the house party.
“Did you grab any soda?” Charlie asks, reaching into my purse that’s hiding under my feet. “I wasn’t paying attention.”
“Sorry, I only snagged orange juice.” I pick up the purse and rest it on my lap to showcase the jug of sunshine and vodka.
“Good enough.”
Charlie grabs a cigarette and scrounges through the center console for a lighter, then pulls out her cell crammed in her pocket.
“Take a video of me lighting this.” The phone tumbles to my hands. Charlie’s charcoal eyes glimmer as they stare into the lens. She brings the cigarette to her mouth and the flicker of the lighter crackles. Once done, she snatches the phone, inhaling the sweet taste of nicotine.
“Damn, I look good.” Charlie releases a wave of smoke. I lean against her shoulder and watch as she makes some edits and posts it to Instagram without care.
More than half of our graduating class follows her. Immediately, the notifications start pouring in. At the top of her stories, I see a message icon from Brody Thomas, and my stomach drops. He’s GCU’s legendary quarterback. The brooding jock with muscles that make girls weak in the knees. He’s also the Asshole Ex-Boyfriend.
Charlie dumped and blocked him for thenth time after last night’s screaming match. I had planted myself on her bed, unable to tear myeyes away from his name on her screen while he persistently called. He left her atrocious voicemails and hollered insane expletives at her. When she finally answered, I listened to an incomprehensible argument about meaningless nothings for almost an hour.
It was a six-month relationship, but the longest Charlie’s ever been in. Brody knew his taste in women, and Charlie meets the definition of perfection. Any girl above five-two is too tall. They can’t weigh more than a hundred and fifteen pounds. The bigger the boobs, the better. Acne is a big hell no. Wide shoulders, gross. Anyone looking like a twig doesn’t get a second glance. And hair... he hates girls with hair on their arms or anywhere. Cankles... well, they wig him out.
