Low Down & Dirty, Page 2

  “Infection,” I’m quick to correct as if it were an upgrade. “And I’m sort of seeing someone.” I trot off to the mini Starbucks they’ve crammed into the heart of the bakery section while flaunting the aforementioned nutsack that suddenly morphed into the size of a refrigerator. As much as I’d like to hit my Honda and engage in the drive of shame, I’d much rather have a nice latte to restart my day on the proper trajectory.

  And seeing someone? I guess if you count these five inner-vaginal applicators, I’m seeing five someones and two of them will likely make a reprisal.

  Crap. I put in an order for my usual and scroll through my phone while I wait for my drink to magically appear. There’s a message from Lisa. Will you make Sunday dinner this week? The girls miss you like crazy!

  I text right back. I’ll try!

  If I’m not dead by then, I want to add, but don’t. Lisa doesn’t much care for humor of the cadaver variety. She’s my older sister by ten years. When our mother died, she took my younger sisters and me in. She’s the one who helped me get into Whitney Briggs University all those years ago. She’s also the one who helped me navigate the maze of financial aid apps. I had a few scholarships here and there, but I’m pretty much living to pay back my debt to WB society at this point. My younger sisters, Sadie and Everly, are in their junior and senior years of high school respectively and still live with her. Not to mention the fact Lisa has two little girls of her own, four and five, Karly and Kasey. And they’re all happily crammed in her tiny three-bedroom out in Friar’s Corner, a good two hours away with Lisa and her husband. I try to get out there at least twice a month.

  I text Raven a quick rundown of the vagina monologues that just went on between my new best friend Sally and me, and I can practically hear her laughing through those all caps LOLs! she’s sending every three seconds. It’s nice to know my busy bestie can always find time to chortle at my many vaginal misdeeds no matter how far I sink into the depths of the Twatlantic.

  “Harlow!”

  I look up, fully expecting to find the barista smiling over my venti mocha macchiato, but instead I see Sally, the giant cock-sleeve herself who’s managed to escape her stall.

  “Don’t take that!” She waves her frantic hands at me as if I had a leg lifted on the counter and was seconds from inserting myself with those toxins she just offloaded on me. “The doctor’s office called and said there was a mix-up. That prescription was meant for someone else.” She wastes no time in snatching the tiny white bag from my clutches.

  “What?” The weight of a thousand vaginas sloughs off my shoulders. “Knew it! Ha!” I balk at the elderly man pushing up behind me. “My vagina’s clean enough to eat off of.”

  His wife smacks him with her purse and waddles him away to safe pasture.

  “So, what about my throat?” I spin back to Sally who’s currently got a death grip on that little white bag she snapped up.

  “The office said your throat cultures all came back clear. I’ll be sure to refund your co-pay. Have a good day.” She starts to plod off before turning back around, that same stone-faced expression on her as if we hadn’t crossed that awkward vaginal divide to becoming fast friends. “And remember, when it comes to anal sex, a condom is still a good idea.” She takes off just as my latte arrives, and it takes all of the superhuman strength I don’t have not to hurl it at her.

  “I don’t like anal sex!” I jump a little, begging the words to somehow stumble back into my mouth. Instead, I snap up my drink and barrel toward my Honda the way I should have to begin with. “No one does.”

  No sooner do I land in my car than I get a group text from my boss, Lenny, the owner of Windows-R-Us.

  Warehouse fire. Need to let a few of you go. So sorry. Message me if you’d like a referral letter. All the best!

  “All the best? No, no, no!” I bang my hand over the steering wheel, and the horn goes off three times fast. I look up in time to see Preppy Frat Boy staring wild-eyed while loading his Beamer midflight. I called it.

  I don’t bother waving him off with my middle finger. Instead, I hightail it back to my shitty apartment where, of course, there’s not a single parking space out front, no thanks to the overgrown bright orange truck that reads Abatement and Cleanup with a giant skull and crossbones slapped across the side as a part of its not-so friendly logo. I head in sans my Cherry Garcia, my vaginal suppositories, or a job—and get as far as the front gate.

  “You live here?” A man with a hardhat squints down at me, looking every bit like Fred Flintstone come to life.

  “I sure do. Look—I’ve had one hell of a day, so if you’re trying to sell me cookies, steak from the back of your car, or any form of deep-fried religion, I can’t even.”

  “I’m not trying to sell you anything, lady. This is a notice from the city.” He points to a letter posted over the entry. “The landlord tried to replace some roofing damaged from the rains, and it turns out this place is loaded with asbestos. Insurance offered to replace all the drywall, but unfortunately, you’ll have to find someplace else to call home. This could take up to a year.” He hands me a white surgical mask. “You’ve got thirty minutes to get your necessary belongings out. The landlord will have to foot the bill to get the big stuff into storage.”

  “What?” I stagger forward, staring at the white boxy building I’ve called home for the last three years. Okay, so I called it a hothouse from the armpit of hell, but still, it’s where I lay my head at night. And then it hits me. “Oh my God, I’ve done this. It was me who reported the leak. I’m a jinx.”

  “You’re a hero,” Fred Flintstone barks back. “Now get in there and get out as fast as you can. I’d hate for you to lose a lung over it.”

  “Holy hell,” I whimper as my feet spur me on unwillingly.

  Thirty minutes later, I’ve saddled my tiny Honda Civic to the roof with bags and shoes, and the odd stuffed animal, looking every bit the batshit homeless lady I feared I’d become.

  “Where to go? Where to fucking go?” I can’t go to Lisa’s. I slump over the steering wheel at the thought of rooming with my younger sisters in that tiny shoebox of a house. As it stands, I can only handle Friar’s Corner for a few hours at a time. It’s not even on Google maps for shit’s sake!

  Think, think!

  “Oh God, I can’t think.”

  My phone buzzes and a part of me fears to look down in the event some other part of my life dissolved in the interim, but I do so with one eye closed, and as soon as I see it’s Raven, I perk right up.

  I text her my latest, greatest debacle, homeless—no job will travel! Raven will know what to do. Raven always knows what to do. Three minutes go by, then seven. Oh God, I’ve done the impossible. I’ve stumped her. Doesn’t she realize the best solution is for me to room with her in that luxury apartment that she’s technically only seen the inside of twice?

  I shoot another quick text in the event I hadn’t painted the clearest picture of my not-so-bright, can’t-even-afford-shades derelict future.

  Just my luck, I have forty-seven dollars in savings!

  There. That should erase any loose ideas of me hauling myself all over downtown Jepson in an effort to find partially hygienic shelter by way of my Visa card.

  She texts right back. How about your sister’s?

  “Gah!” I drop the phone to my lap a moment before I pick it right back up and begin texting away like a woman possessed.

  There is no room at the inn. Lisa is out. How about a snazzy deluxe apartment in the sky—on the upper east side of Jepson? RING ANY DOORBELLS? I hit Send.

  Subtlety never was my strong suit.

  Again, more silence. Wow. Raven Masterson has been a sister to me ever since freshman orientation, and it seems this day I’ve overstepped my homeless bounds.

  My phone pings. I’ve got an idea…

  I text right back. Don’t keep me in suspense too long. My vagina is bound to fall off, or my car might spontaneously explode. It’s that kind of a day. />
  She pings back. Ha. Ha. Very funny. My roommate has malaria. It’s not a good time.

  Malaria? Who the hell does her roommate think she is? Me?

  She texts back once again. Okay, so—my brother Levi has a spare room he’ll gladly let you use until you can get back on your feet. He’s going through a bit of a rough patch right now, so make sure to stay out of his hair. And whatever you do, please, for the love of all things holy, DO NOT SEDUCE MY BROTHER!!! Things will get weird between us and I might have to initiate a beatdown. ;) Head over to The Sloppy Pelican in Hollow Brook tonight at seven and he’ll meet you there. Remember, keep your panties where they belong! Gotta run. Big meeting in 5. XO

  “Brother, huh?” For all the years I’ve known Raven, she’s talked very little about her brothers. She has two, and that’s all I’ve been apprised of up until now.

  “Levi,” I test it out on my lips. “Going through some stuff.” I scoff. “Aren’t we all, buddy. Aren’t we all.”

  Omigod! Hollow Brook is glorious in springtime. I drive by Whitney Briggs for the hell of it and glare mildly at the Black Bear as if this entire debacle I’ve entangled myself in is somehow its fault. In all fairness, the fact I was burrowed in that frat trap last night is exactly why I was forced to call in sick, thus opening Pandora’s vaginal box and unleashing all unholy bacterial hell in my life and that of poor Lenny. I can’t help but think I’m the real reason they’ve had to shutter their window business overnight, no pun intended.

  My all-time favorite stress song blares from my phone, “Key Largo,” and I lazily sing along while taking in the sights. When I get stressed out, I do two things: I bake brownies and I play “Key Largo” on a loop. Ever since I was a kid, I’ve played this song over and over when things get rough—and judging by the fact I’ve probably listened to this song more than the guy who sang it, you can say things have been rough for a while. My father tries to surface in my thoughts, but I’m quick to submerge him right back down again. There are some dark holes I don’t dare to tread near right now, and my father and whatever hole he might be lurking in is one of them.

  I breeze down the main thoroughfare and up toward the ritzier, far more docile side of town where young sorority girls like me eschewed back in the day. I pass a bustling strip mall, and a laugh gets caught in my throat at what I see.

  “Hallowed Grounds!” I honk as I pass it as if it were an old friend. Technically, it sort of is. I spent many a morning, noon, and night in that coffee-based establishment—at least the one on campus. I keep forgetting it’s an actual chain and not proprietary to the university itself. It’s easy to forget the finer things in life, like a decent cup of coffee, riding your ten-speed up and down the hills without fear of getting mugged right outside your asbestos-riddled apartment. Downtown Jepson leaves a lot to be desired. Correction, the wrong side of downtown Jepson leaves a lot to be desired. The right side is a conglomerate of high-end shopping and luxury tower apartments. That sort of describes Raven and me in a nutshell. She’s Raven Masterson—uptown girl, and I’m downtown Low Hartley.

  I drive a little further, and the electronic map attached to my dashboard beeps like mad indicating I’ve hit ground zero. Yes, the Honda is ancient, but the first thing Lisa did once she cosigned for the steel cage is gift me a nifty little navigator that runs off my cigarette lighter.

  “Wow,” I marvel as I pull slowly into the lot. I remember this place. It’s the old mining-inspired restaurant that went defunct not that long ago. Hollow Brook Mining, Incorporated. It must have bitten the gold dust, and in its place sits a giant six-foot tall, rather inebriated looking pelican smack on the rooftop. A rustic looking sign boasts the name, The Sloppy Pelican. “This place is adorable,” I whisper to myself like a loon and zoom into the nearest parking spot I can find near the front. It’s just after sunset, and already it feels like midnight. The lot is full, but nowhere near to capacity. I’m betting they’re still pretty new.

  I check my look in the mirror, run a brush through my hair, and put on a swath of peach lipstick.

  “Don’t seduce my brother.” I scoff at my best friend’s words as I claw my way out of my poor car that looks as if a fabric bomb went off in it. I catch one last glimpse of my hot ghost-like self in the driver’s side window—caramel-colored hair, long and flowing and in desperate need of a touch-up at the roots (but the night is forgiving), hazel eyes offset by copious amounts of gunmetal eye shadow that really makes them pop—and gives them a glassy appeal that makes me look a tad bit stoned—the former was a pro tip from one of my younger sisters who has secretly decided to skip Briggs and head to beauty school. I figure once she’s ready to launch, I’ll have a little sit-down with her on the many benefits of sorority living. There are some things in life that should not be missed, and living across the street from nine hundred frat boys happens to be one of them.

  I wobble on my heels a moment. I’ll admit to sprucing up my attire a notch, but what the hell else was I supposed to do while driving around in my closet all day? These knockoff Jimmy Choos make my legs look as if they shoot straight into the stratosphere, and this little black dress is my choice accouterment when meeting my friend’s older, most likely hot brother. Face it, Raven is a looker with all that long black hair, those glowing blue eyes. If her brother is half as hot, I’ll have plenty of eye candy to keep me busy until I land back on my pointy stilettos.

  A frantic redhead trots this way cradling a clipboard and an oversized purse that dangles from her wrist precariously.

  “OhmyGodohmyGodohmyGod!” she screams into the night.

  “Whoa.” I try to get out of her way, but she bumps right into me. “Is everything okay?” I sneak a peek past her shoulder in the event a madman is out to top this day off by way of planting a hatchet in my forehead. In that respect, she’s probably damn lucky she bumped into me.

  “It’s him,” she pants just under her breath as she tries to juggle the chaos flopping in her arms. She seems about my age, mid-twenties, pretty in a socialite kind of a way. The extremely wealthy have a certain polished, understated but expensive as all hell look about them, and she definitely has that pretty, polished Prada-inspired look. “I can’t lose my job.” She grips me over the shoulders, her eyes spinning like pinwheels. “I love my job!”

  “Be thankful you have one, sister.” I try to pry this job-loving loon off me, but she’s dug in deep. “Look, I don’t know how many mojitos you downed in there, but I’m betting a cab ride is in your future. You need me to make that call for you, sweetie?”

  “I don’t need a cab. And don’t you call me sweetie.” She scrawls something at the top of the clipboard before thrusting it into my hands. “Just go on in there and they’ll know what to do. Call me as soon as you get out the door.” She scuttles me to the entry, and it’s all I can do to keep up without breaking my neck. Just as I’m about to plunge my elbow into her stomach and make a break from my new hell on heels friend, she spins me into her abruptly. “There’s five hundred dollars in it for you.”

  “Now we’re talking.” I knew this day had to get better. “What am I doing?” If she says men, we might have to renegotiate. What am I saying? Lisa would kill me if I resorted to prostitution. But is it really prostitution if your one-night stand just so happens to leave a fat wad of hundies behind? I think not. That’s just poor finance management on his part.

  “You’re a food critic.” She spins me back around and gives me a hearty shove toward the giant double doors. “Have all the free food you can handle, then meet me outside before you hurl. You’ll do fine. Oh, and your name is Lex, not Alexa, and for God’s sake, not Lexy. Don’t let them fuck with you like that.”

  “Food critic,” I hiss as I sail in through the doors.

  A tiny sigh expels from me at the sight of the establishment. It holds just as much rustic charm on the inside as it does the outside. The floors are a dark stained plywood. The furniture has the feel of an old haunted mine, and I am loving the rustic, r
usty, dusty look of the place. The tables are spread out well enough, but it’s lacking one thing and I can’t quite put my finger on it.

  A long bar sits to my left, and that seems to be where a major portion of the I’m-ready-to-drop-my-panties brigade has settled for the night. There’s an equal number of men ready and willing to rumble, and from the looks of how much everyone is enjoying themselves, a little rumbling and tumbling under the covers is sure to ensue quickly.

  Dear God, it seems I’ve accidently stumbled upon the grown-up version of the Black Bear. Holy hell, if I had only rolled my old, worn-out tires in this direction last night, I might have actually had use for those vaginal suppositories Sally was trying to hawk me.

  A couple of drop-dead gorgeous, bright-eyed, and glad-to-see-me grinning from ear-to-sexy-ear boys stride in my direction. Who the hell am I kidding? There’s not a boy in this fine establishment—those are bona fide M-E-N.

  The one on the right looks vexingly gorgeous, brooding through that lewd grin he’s shooting my way, and those eyes—twin sparkling aqua pools of color I’ve never seen on another human being before. And yet there’s something wholly familiar about him. But that chest. The way his dress shirt stretches taut in all the right places has me salivating for whatever he has on the menu. And judging by the penetrating gaze—those fang-like canines all but ready to take a bite, I’d say we have each other on the carte du jour. Dear God, I am finally going to get laid tonight.

  The other one’s not bad either, slicked dark hair, greenish brown eyes, and looks for days, but something about that linebacker next to him makes my stomach squeeze tight. My body breaks out into a spontaneous cold sweat, and my thighs start quivering as if waving him in like an air traffic controller. I glance over to the bar, and half the patrons are gawking this way.

  God! It’s as if something monumental is about to happen. It’s as if the king had stepped down from his throne and is about to officiate me as his chosen sex slave. I’m about to be crowned queen of The Sloppy Pelican or…