Page 94 of The Vacation Mix-Up
“Bring it on,” Levi goads, gesturing toward us. “We eat guys like them for breakfast.”
What a dumbass thing to say.
“Eat this, you marshmallow.” Riles pokes out her tongue, then murmurs to me, “I bet they eat steroids on toast.”
“Who are you?” I double over, my ribs aching with laughter. “And what have you done with my sweet roommate?”
“She doesn’t exist when prizes are involved.”
“No shit!”
Continuing to laugh, because I’m actually enjoying myself, Iforget about the lights, stage, and the people who are watching. I forget about the shit I’ve been through, the shit I’m climbing out of, and the shit I’ve left behind. I forget it all and relax, even though I’m going to have to swallow my balls and complete a dare sooner rather than later.
Paul scans his list, then waggles his eyebrows at the audience. “I dare you to do a handstand and walk across the stage.”
“I got this, bro.” Levi smacks his brother on the chest and moves him aside while Darius claps above his head, coaxing the audience to join in.
“Pa-leease,” Riles groans, crossing her arms over her chest, her hip jutting. “This dare is rigged. He probably walks like that to the bathroom.”
She makes a valid point; it does seem rigged, especially when Paul starts singing lyrics to “Be Faithful” by Fatman Scoop and the Crooklyn Clan while Levi slowly hand-walks.
Riles puffs out a harsh breath, her arms falling limp by her sides. “We’re done. The audience love them.”
“Hey! We’re not. There’s still one round left.” I massage her shoulders. “We’ve got this.”
Sighing, she looks up at me, desperation swimming in her pretty, misty eyes. “We can’t lose to them, Riley. They’re turnips.”
Not exactly how I’d describe them, but yeah… fair call. “I know!”
“I want that voucher.”
“I know.”
“We need to nail this last dare, so you better pray Paul doesn’t ask us to climb into a box.”
My blood runs cold. “He could do that?”
“I hope not, or we can kiss that voucher goodbye.”
Damn straight we can. There’s no way in hell I’m climbing into anything.
“Friends, friends, friends,” Paul drawls as he ambles toward us, “the stakes have now risen.” He taps his chin and turns to the audience. “What shall we make them do, I wonder?”
“Take your pants off!” Brittany shouts.
“Yeah, love,” Ben adds, “get ’em off!”
Shrugging, because I’d rather strip than face the prospect of being locked inside a box, I start to loosen my sweatpants.
“Whoa! Not so fast, Magic Mike.” Paul places his hand on my shoulder, then narrows his eyes at the audience. “Who’s in charge here?”
“You!” they chant.
“That’s right. And I have a much better dare for you,friends.”
My jaw locks tight, his sinister tone and the glare from his pearly whites unsettling my nerves.
No damn box. No damn box.
