Page 90 of The Vacation Mix-Up
This time, I squint and shade my eyes with Riles as two young, fit-looking guys jump up from their seats. They fist-bump, chest-bump, then jog toward the stage.
“What aretheygoing to do with a spa voucher?” Riles grumbles. “I bet they don’t have any chest hair, so they can’t even get a wax.”
I choke on my laughter, link my hands behind my back, and straighten my shoulders. “If you think I’m going to get a wax if we win, think again.”
“I don’t,” she deadpans, eyes steadfast on the guys. “What I think is you should leave your chest hair exactly where it is.”
My head slowly rotates in her direction, the corners of my mouth lifting. “You do?”
“Yes. Now focus, Riley,” she hisses. “We can’t let them beat us.”
“They won’t.”
“I know. Over my dead body, they will.”
Hopefully, it won’t come to a life-or-death situation. Then again, I seem to be partnered with Muhammad Riley.
God, help me!
“Welcome, Truth-or-Dare cruiselings.” Paul holds his arm out, presenting us to the audience. “Please give our participants a round of applause.”
The crowd claps and whistles, Ben’s drawn-out war cry the loudest of all. “Riiileyyys!”
I chuckle at the idiot.
“Now, for the rules: You can choose truth or dare in the first two rounds. If you choose dare, only one of you must carry it out, until the final round, which is a dare only, and you will both have to complete it. If you all succeed, the audience will vote on who carried out the final dare the best. Easy?”
We all agree, so Paul approaches the two guys who were last to the stage. “What are your names?”
The taller one leans into the microphone. “Darius,” followed by the other, “Levi.”
“Are you friends? Partners? Family?”
“Brothers,” they say simultaneously.
“Where are you from?”
They bump fists again and holler, “Brooklyn!”
“Well, brothers from Brooklyn, good luck to you.” Paul shakes their hands and then moves on to the older pair. “And who do we have here?” He points the microphone at the woman, and I’m not even sure she answers. “Sorry. I didn’t quite get that,” he says, placing his hand to his ear. “Please speak up so we can all hear.”
“Iris,” she repeats, her face as red as my truck.
He moves the microphone to who I assume is her husband. “And you, sir?”
“Jim.”
“Married? Friends? Family?”
“Married,” they both say.
“And where are you from?”
“Atlanta.”
“Very good!” Paul shakes their hands as well and then turns to face the audience, pulling an “eek” face. “Good luck. I hope you remain married after this.”
The crowd laughs as he moves toward us.
