Take a Bow (The Perfect Plans Series Book 2) (30 page)

“HOW’S MY LITTLE buttercup?” Stacey quips.

Her pity-pouted question reverberates through the phone line like an annoying stab to my pounding eyeballs.
How am I?
Well, let’s break this down…One, I’m hung-over, the residual taste of puke lingering despite scrubbing my teeth four times. Two, the man that I love is fucking his ex-girlfriend -
brilliant
. Three, I practically groped my friendly neighbor like a drunken whore -
fucking brilliant.
“I’m fine.”

“Well, that’s a two-worded load of crap that I’ll ignore. Are you ready to drown your very possibly unwarranted sorrows? I believe my bestie offered me a bachelorette party,” she adds.

Fuck
. Drinking? I just threw up in my mouth a little.
Unwarranted
sorrows my ass - my
seriously
dumb ass - for falling in love with a man that it seems was never really mine after all.

“Hellooo? Abster? Why do I sense hesitation? You know I know what’s best for you babe…shit-faced alcohol indulgence, remember?”

“Ummm…about that, I kinda started without you. Last night.”

“Okaaayyy. And…?”

“And, I puked.”

“Okaaayyy.”

“Andrew was naked.”

“I’m sorry, come again? Did you just say that you were drunk, you puked, and were in the presence of a naked Andrew? Back the fucking train up. I get the drinking, I get the puking, but how - and
WHY
- is Andrew naked in this story?”

“Well, it started innocently…”

“If you’re about to tell me that you fucking had sex with Andrew, I’m going to have a stroke.”

“Of course not!” Although it was nowhere near that, it
could
have been. “Do you want the story or not?”

“I’m
listening
…”

“We kissed. It was awkward.
Beyond
awkward. Long story short, I felt nothing. Not one iota of passion.”
God, the look on his face when he pulled away.
“I think I hurt him, Stace. I don’t want to hurt him.”

“You don’t want to hurt
Andrew
? What about Alex?”

“Well, I think that point is moot, since he’s bumping f’ugly’s with his whore of an ex-girlfriend.”

“Well, one, that’s speculation. And two, can we please get back to the
how was Andrew naked
part?”

“He was in a towel…bad aim…I saw his goods,”
which I wish I hadn’t
, “…and it went down hill from there. I shouldn’t have gone there in the first place, I was drunk…lonely.”

“So? What? You see random dicks and you’re inspired to kiss people? I’m really worried about you, Aby. I will not allow you to turn into an almost as attractive version of me - no offence. You obviously should
not
be allowed to drink alone. We’re going out tonight and doing it properly, no random dicks. Hair of the dog, as Thomas would say. But listen, babe, I’m just glad that it stopped at a kiss. That’s all I’m going to say to your blind assumptions - a.k.a Alex and Julia.”

Their names together like that sends geriatric shudders down my spine. “
Okaaay
,” I give in. It is Stacey’s bachelorette after all - well, in lieu of my pity party. “But hear this, my whore-friend, those names are hereby stricken from tonight’s conversation.”

“What names? Alex and Julia?”

“You really are a whore.”

“At least I’m a whore that can drink alone. And, about those names…”

“Don’t!” I stop her.

“…Time starts now.”

“SO…I TOLD him, if I’m still able to walk to the kitchen, you don’t deserve dinner,” Stacey fills us in, her tone completely serious.

I almost choke on my sip of beer with a laugh. “And at what point, exactly, are you actually going to admit to your poor fiancé that, if and when you ever do cook him dinner, he should expect a sandwich at most?”

“Listen bitch, I can summon a little Gordon Ramsay - Can you see the
fuck you
in my smile?”

“I hate to tell you ladies, but mad culinary skills amount to nothing more than a can of beans in the relationship department. Although,” Emily pauses, “…perhaps it’s just my department that’s full of beans.” She contemplates her statement a little. “Humph. I need another drink.”

“Then let’s get the woman another drink!” Stacey squeals with delight, flagging the attention of the waiter.

“You just haven’t met the right one, Emily,” I attempt to make her feel better, though my words put a bad taste in my mouth - which I decide to wash away with another swig of beer.

“I swear to God, if I go on one more blind date…” she trails off with a dramatic shiver.

“You just have to
feel
it with the right guy,” I interject again.
Or the wrong guy. Fucker.
What the hell is wrong with me? Am I channeling Doctor Ruth or something?

“I don’t know…I have mixed drinks about feelings,” Emily purses her lips, clearly already feeling the alcohol.

“Are you
sure
?” Stacey asks conspiratorially, the waiter departing with her whispered order of drinks. “I do know a few good men,” she winks.

“A few?” I laugh.

“Shut it,” she glares at me playfully, looking back to Emily. “I would be honored to give you my little black book.
I
won’t be needing it anymore,” she adds with a giddy squeal.

Emily and I join in, paying homage to the bride-to-be in girly style, clinking glasses and dancing in our seats with rambunctious laughter.

“Hey, whatever happened to that Ken Doll neighbor of yours?” Emily asks, and I almost choke on my beer a second time. “Andrew? Is he still available?”

“Oh, he’s available,” Stacey mutters sarcastically.

My head darts towards her to return her recent glare, but much more harshly.

Pursing her lips, she shrugs.

It’s so not funny
. The last thing I need to think about right now is my run in with Andrew - and by run in, I mean his naked glistening body against mine…right before
that
kiss. How did I let that happen?
Oh, right, I was drunk
.

“Now, we’re talking!” Stacey’s attention is pulled towards the return of the waiter with a tray full of shots. “Let’s get this party started, ladies!” she gushes, swaying sexily in her seat. “It’s tequila time!”

Oh shit
.

“OKAY, I ADMIFF it,” Emily begins through a drunken hiccup, “…the shots are much better than my red wine. Cause you know, well, for one,” she holds her finger up, trying to focus on it, “…my teeth aren’t purple.”

“Yup, that’s always a good thing,” I nod in agreement.

“And!” she continues, as though her next point is very important, “…wine always makes me…what’s the word?”

“Drunk?” Stacey asks.

“Noooo,” she replies like it’s a dumb answer. “All needy and shit.”

“Ahhh,” Stacey replies, nodding her head. “Like, ‘Give me wine, and tell me I’m pretty”, stupid shit?”

“Yes!” she shrieks at Stacey’s apparent brilliance.

“As opposed to ‘Give me tequila, and call me a whore’?” I question, feeling rather witty. And horny.
Damn tequila
.

“You can always drunk text Alex,” Emily nudges me, winking.

“Brilliant idea!” Stacey agrees.

“Okay,” I smile, pulling my phone from my bag.

“I spy with my little eye…something HOT!” Emily suddenly stands, heading across the bar towards what’s caught her eye.

“Abs, I was kidding,” Stacey mutters as I fiddle with my phone.

“
I’m
not. I’m sooooo not. He needs to know what he gave up. What time is it in L.A. right now? Screw it,” I start typing…

Subject: You suck, but I’m horny

If I sit on your face, will you tell me I’m pretty?

Aby

“Sent,” I announce aloud on a cheeky smile, proud of my possibly dumbass rambling.
Wait, what did I type?

“Give me that,” Stacey grabs it from me. “
Ugh
,” she replies, reading it. “If you’re going to do it, it has to be done right. And that, my little slurring whore, is why it’s good to have me around…”

Subject: Be still, my beating vagina

You gone long time…Confucius say, he who masturbate only screwing self.

Aby

We can’t stop laughing, until my phone suddenly vibrates on the table.

“Oh. My. God,” we utter simultaneously, staring at each other momentarily in shock before bursting into laughter once more.

“Well, what did the
amazing
Alexander Tate say,” I ask, laced with a snarky edge.

“Ummm…Abs, he’s asking where you are.”

“What?
Now
he wants to know where I am? Why the fuck does he care - he’s in L.A.?”

“Well, what do you want me to tell him?”

Grabbing the phone from her I begin commentating my reply as I type, “
Where am I? I’m at FUCK YOU
,” I hit send.

“Well, you certainly weren’t ambiguous,” Stacey laughs.

“He was an arse,” Emily plops back down.

“Yes. He. Was,” I add. I know damn well that Emily was referring to the guy she just walked away from, but the timing of her statement was perfect.

“What did I miss,” she asks, clearly confused.

“Let me tell you what I
don’t
miss,” I quickly reply, “…Alexander-fucking-Tate.”

“Ahhh, Aby? Did you know you have an old
unread
message from Alex?” Stacey asks, scrolling through my cell.

“I’m sorry, what? How old?”
How the hell did I miss that?

“Like, this morning old,” she replies, pausing to read it before looking at me, eyes squinted in confusion.

“Well? What did it say?”

“It says, ‘I need to’, and then…
jibberish
,” Stacey reads it aloud.

“He needs to
jibberish
?” Emily questions as I stare at Stacey, holding my breath.

What?
My gaze darts to Emily, “Is that some British thing? What does that mean?”

“No! I don’t know,” she replies, her drunken defense laced with
what the fuck
.

“You dummies. It means the text didn’t come through. It was cut off in delivery, hence the bunch of weird symbols, a.k.a.
jibberish
. You fuck-tards,” Stacey holds it up quickly for us to see, before pulling it away again in scrutiny.

“Humph,” I snort, “…you never know, maybe he was drunk too. I could see how his
whore
-able replacement for me could drive him to drink. So, what, no subject line?” I ask, pulling down a drunken mask of bravery.

“The subject says, ‘I’m so sorry for everything’,” Stacey begrudgingly meets my gaze, pausing at whatever she sees flash across my face. “You don’t know what his text said, Aby.”

I stare at her for a moment, my broken heart begging my head to ignore what I know is true. It doesn’t matter what it said. He’s gone.

Gulping down the remains of my drink, I slam the empty glass down with a bang, standing to exit our little booth. I can’t shake my anger at Alex, my frustration, and now Stacey’s hopeful mixed messages on top of that.
Fuck him.
Not even losing myself in a drunken stupor is doing the trick - though I’m surprised I’m even standing at this point.

“Where are you going, Aby?” Stacey questions.

“That way,” I point to the crowded dance floor.

“Go girl!” Emily calls after me, “Shake your bootay.”

Forcing my way through the throng of sweaty patrons, I settle in the middle of the crowded space, closing my eyes to will thoughts of Alex and his message from my mind, my body giving in to the rhythm of the track. I just want to forget. I want to feel numb. Yet I can’t seem to let go.
Damn you, Alex Tate
.

I love him.

I hate him. For what he’s done.
Julia
.
How could he go back to her?

Even in my drunken state, rationality answers that question -
He never stopped loving her
. The bitter poisonous bile builds in my throat and I reach to caress it away in the sensual beat, desperate to lose myself to the consumed alcohol, the erotic tempo of the song.

Swiping my hands through my hair, I pull it over my shoulder, the strands cascading along my chest as I sashay my hips in a slow rhythm. I startle at the feel of large hands circling my waist, fingers spread wide, engulfing me. I fight the urge to imagine they’re Alex’s. I know they’re not. His are likely wrapped around
Julia Sucks-Cox
.
That fucking whore
.