The Consequence of Loving Colton (Consequence 1)

“He can’t!” Milo blurted.

“He should,” Jason agreed. “Come on, Max, come hang out with the guys.”

Max took a few steps away from Milo but kept looking back as if to ask permission. I wrapped my arm around his shoulders and squeezed so tight I was pretty sure his back popped. “We’re going to do some male bonding and shit.”

“You know,” he whispered under his breath, “I don’t know how you know, but you know . . .”

“’Bye, guys!” I yelled over his voice, then whispered, “Yup, and you’re going to help me or I’m sending you into the bachelorette party with some Skinnygirl Sangria and a box of chocolates.”

He gasped, his eyes round with horror. “You wouldn’t!”

Ha, I had him by the balls. Time for a twist. With a malicious grin, I waited for him to keep arguing. “I’ve already done my time!”

“Then play by my rules,” I said coolly. “Agreed?”

“Milo’s going to kill me.” Max reached for my hand and sealed all our fates.

CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

MILO

“Milo?” Mom came into my room, took one look at me, and burst out laughing. Tears streamed down her face and a few hiccups followed.

“Do I look that awful?” I pulled the red leather dress lower, but it was useless. Every time I tugged it just snapped back to where it had been before, which was so inappropriate I probably wouldn’t be able to bend over without getting arrested.

“No,” she sighed happily. “It’s just—you have it on backwards.”

I swear. Sometimes it feels like I’m not even a girl. Colton doesn’t think of me as a woman and now I can’t even put on a dress right? I was being overdramatic, but still. It was the stress speaking.

I felt like crying.

See? This was why Colton didn’t notice me! I wasn’t sexy! I wanted to be sexy! And Max went and sang that nice song and now Colton believed him, but if they got him drunk—God help us all if they got Max drunk.

He was one of those emotional drunks. You know, the type who sits at the bar and makes friends with everyone, then continues to buy shots for people, until he bursts into tears and exclaims in slurred language that he loves everyone so much that he wishes he could just give the world a hug.

“Crap.” I sat on the bed with a huff and crossed my arms.

“Let me help.” She pulled me to my feet.

Fifteen minutes later the dress was on the right way, with the plunging neckline in the front and the high part in the back. I suddenly remembered why I’d bought it in the first place without trying it on. It was gorgeous. It fit really tight—I’d probably have three bruised ribs come morning, but it was worth it.

“Shoes.” Mom clasped her hands. “You need something tall.”

“But that’ll make the skirt look shorter!”

“Exactly.” She waved. “Oh, look! You still have your shoes from homecoming.”

I winced.

Homecoming. The senior homecoming I attended with my own brother. Awesome, like I wanted to relive that sad moment.

“Put them away, Mom.”

“No.” She put them by my feet and held them stable while I stepped in. They were strappy black six-inch heels—at least they still fit. “Now twirl.”

I twirled lamely on the heels, nearly toppling over.

“You need makeup.”

“Mom, I don’t—”

“Sit!”

After another twenty minutes, I was convinced I could make a good living as a prostitute.

Eyeliner thicker than sludge? Check.

Short tight dress? Check.

Stripper heels? Check.

Bright red lipstick? Check.

“Perfect!” she shouted. I’m pretty sure she was slightly inebriated. “Now go have fun!”

I hobbled down the hall and then hobbled down the stairs and out the door, and made my way to my car.

Our town might not have had a lot of places to eat but it had a crap-load of bars. The girls wanted to do a bar crawl from one end of Main Street to the other, finally meeting up with the guys around midnight.

I locked the car, jumped out, and nearly sprained my ankle. Yeah, I was going to be that girl at the end of the night—the one who carried her shoes and caught a foot disease from the dirty sidewalk.

I would rock it in Vegas.

I continued to tell myself that the evening was going to be fine; it had to be fine. All I needed to do was make sure Max kept his hands to himself and Colton actually noticed I was wearing a dress and had boobs. Yes, that was my mission: make Colton aware of boobs. If all else failed, I’d have some drinks, stay silently in the corner, and pray that Max practiced self-control. He was an adult, after all.

“Drink! Drink! Drink!” the bar patrons shouted as Max downed his third shot in a row.

The dude could party—had to give him that.

We’d been at it for at least three hours and he was still as solid as Fort Knox—never slipped up once about the engagement.

It wasn’t that he didn’t talk about it.

He talked all damn night. Milo this and Milo that. I almost ran my head through the bar.

“So . . .” I waved my hand at the bartender and pointed at the empty glass. “Tell me about Milo. What’s the deal?”

“Uh . . .” Max looked away. “I gotta go to the bathroom and—”

I grabbed the collar of his shirt and tugged. “Sit.”