Part 3 (1/2)
”AIDS!” I shouted before I could stop myself.
My best friend immediately spewed her mouthful of wine like a miniature, rose-tinted old faithful.
”Dammit, woman!” I screamed as I jumped off the couch, ”Towels! We need towels! Paper ones! In the kitchen! Go get paper towels out of the kitchen! Hurry up before it sets in and stains anything!”
Looking back, I have no idea why I just stood there with my gla.s.s of wine in my hand, doing the Flash Dance, and flailing a limp wrist in the general direction of the volcanic wine spill, but it happened and I'm not ashamed. I blame the hormone overdose and too much wine.
Becks scrambled off to the kitchen giggling and returned with tears in her eyes, gasping for air, with an entire roll of paper towels. We quickly wiped down the leather and the hardwood, making sure we took care of anything porous before we went to work on the gla.s.s.
I can confidently accredit my friends.h.i.+p with Becks to one thing: her infectious laugh. It's what brought us together when we first met, and it's still one of my favorite sounds in the whole world. By the time we finished cleaning up the last drops of wine, even I had surrendered to its power and giggled alongside her.
We sat there surrounded by soggy paper towels stained blood-red with wine and laughed until we cried from the pain in our sides.
”This,” I gasped, ”This is why I call you in a crisis. Can you write it down so we don't forget next time? Your 'plug it with a p.e.n.i.s' line is getting on my nerves.”
”Oh, I can write it down for sure, but I'm still going to give you the plug it with a p.e.n.i.s line. It's a solid plan, really.”
I finally slid into a horizontal position and removed my stilettos before laying my head in her lap and pondering, ”Why does it always have to be the a.s.sholes that do this to me? For once, just one time, can my v.a.g.i.n.a l.u.s.t after someone who isn't a douche yacht?”
She giggled again, ”Douche yacht?”
”Yeah, you know,” I rolled my hand in the air in front of me in explanation, ”A douche canoe, but bigger.”
”How the h.e.l.l do you come up with this stuff, Holly?” She beamed a smile down at me and grew an extra head. I was staring up at two Rebeccas when I finally formed my slurred response.
”Just wine.”
I woke up the next morning still using her thigh as a pillow. Becks had slid down at some point in the night with one of my throw pillows and slept peacefully behind me.
I couldn't stop myself from groaning as I sat up and waited for the world around me to stop swimming. There was an obnoxious ringing in my ears and my eyeb.a.l.l.s felt dehydrated.
”You need to be quiet now,” Becks groaned, ”it's too early for all that noise.”
”I didn't even-” she held up a hand to silence me.
”Shh.”
I blinked a few times and squinted against the sunlight reflecting off the polished wood floors. I had never been so glad to have a day off in my life.
I climbed to my feet, using the couch as a crutch. The gentle squeak of the leather beneath my weight infuriated my slumbering best friend.
She lumbered grumpily to her feet and stomped across the room, ”You'll find me in your bed. Unless the building is on fire, leave me there.”
I considered following her for a moment. Spending an entire day horizontal with my eyes closed sounded like a fabulous plan. I gave in to the call of a gla.s.s of water instead. My body was begging to be rehydrated and I knew that if I laid down in my bed it would be another eight hours before I put any kind of non-alcoholic fluid inside me.
I downed the first gla.s.s in a single breath. When my stomach didn't recoil to the point of expulsion, I filled a second and sipped at it as I headed for the driveway to retrieve my newspaper.
I said a quick prayer that my neighbors would still be asleep at bright-o'clock on a Sunday morning and dashed out for my weekly dose of the L. A. Times.
I dug my dead cell phone out of my purse and plugged it in before starting the coffee and settling in to read the paper.
I knew I didn't have more than a couple hours of peace and quiet before Becks woke up and regaled me with every minute detail of my drunken wailings from the night before. I had every intention of savoring each silent moment of blissful peace I could squeeze out of it.
I also hoped that the quiet practice of reading the paper would chase away the lingering images of bare skin and hungry mouths that had haunted my wine-induced sleep.
Porter Hale was an infection and I needed to find a cure. Fast.
”What the f.u.c.k do I even say to her?” My head was pressed to my forearms and my eyes squeezed shut in an effort to keep out the glaring lights that seared like a laser beam into my brain, ”Hey, Holly. It's Porter. Sorry I trampled you like an elephant?”
”You're really dramatic for a straight guy,” Preston's voice was thick and groggy, but at least he was able to stand up and move around without dying, ”Just call her and talk to her. It's not like she's going to climb through the phone and shank you with a sharpened toothbrush or something.”
”She might,” I griped, ”I probably would if some d.i.c.khead plowed into me and spilled my drink then had the b.a.l.l.s to call me the next day with some lame excuse.”
”First off,” Preston set his bottle of water down on the bar next to my head, ”you shouldn't be drinking while you're getting plowed. I've tried it and it doesn't end well. I almost chipped a tooth. Second, don't give her a lame excuse. Tell her the truth. It's not like Parker really deserves to have you make excuses for him. He's an adult, Porter. He can deal with the consequences of getting c.o.ked out in front of dozens of people. Not your problem.”
Our mother's words from the night before echoed through my brain and spurred a tiny worm of guilt for even considering outing his problem to a virtual stranger.
”I'll figure something out,” I mumbled to the counter, ”In the mean time, have you invested in a coffee pot yet? I've got a caffeine headache building on top of my hangover and I think my head might split open and spill my brains all over your bar if I don't get some java in me soon.”
”Tough break, bro. You'll have to hit a Starbucks or something.”
It took everything I had not to fall to the floor and cry at the thought of leaving the house without coffee.
”Before you crawl out of here like a half-drunk c.o.c.kroach in search of your glorious caffeine, did you happen to see where Parker ended up last night? I checked both of the spare rooms upstairs on my way down and he wasn't in either of them. Did he take off with someone?”
I dug through the hazy memories from the night before and tried to remember where I had last seen him. He'd spent a good hour and a half stripping on his makes.h.i.+ft stage and then wandered off with half a dozen women hanging from him like jewelry.
”If I had to guess,” I lifted my head and cracked an eye at the youngest member of our trio, ”I'd say he posted up in the guest house.”
”Ugh,” Porter groaned, ”He better not have f.u.c.ked up any of my furniture. If the room is covered in a fine layer of dust, I'm gonna have to kill him.”
I pushed myself to a standing position and waited for my precarious imbalance to pa.s.s before I spoke, ”Want me to go out there with you?”
He eyed me warily, ”You think you can make it?”
I thought about it for a moment before responding, ”No, but I can crawl if I need to.”
The genuine smile that split Preston's face was dazzling. All he had to do was smile and people fell in love with him. He just had one of those personalities that made you want to be around him. That smile was his moneymaker.
”Let's get to it then!” He wrapped an arm around my shoulders and, as much as I hate to admit it, I leaned into him to help steady myself against the almost-nautical sway of the room.
”I'm happy to help, Preston, but can we do this quietly? You hurt my head.”
By the time we made it to the back door, I was feeling a bit better and my brain had begun to clear. I ducked out from under his arm as we pa.s.sed into the expanse of his back yard and we walked along the edge of his pool side-by-side.
”Why do you think he does it?” Preston asked quietly.
”Does what?” I wasn't sure if he meant the c.o.ke or the extreme public cries for attention in which Parker was p.r.o.ne to partic.i.p.ate.
”All the drugs and partying. I mean, we have it made, Porter. Look at this place,” he waved an encompa.s.sing hand indicating his perfectly manicured property, ”He could have all this too if he'd just stop being a dumb a.s.s.”