“You’ll thank me for it, love,” she whispered loudly, looking over my shoulder at whatever was happening behind me.
“For the love of God,” Beau snapped. “You can’t serve her a bottle of rum, Sadie.”
Sighing, she reached under the bar, picked up a freaking massive glass with a logo printed on it, put it on the bar, and poured the contents of the bottle into it. Then, she reached across the bar, picked up three cherries and a straw, and dropped them in with the rum.
Looking at it with a frown, she smacked her head. “Of course, where’s my brain at?”
Not waiting for an answer, she lifted the glass with both her hands, walked over to the area where the ice was, tipped some into it, and then brought it back, only stopping to pick up a second straw. Once she got back to where I was, she placed it back on the counter and picked up the soda gun.
Pressing down on a button, she sprayed Coke into it. “One potato, two potatoes,” she counted and then stopped.
Leaning down, she took a sip using the second straw, hummed, and sprayed a quick squirt of Coke on top.
“Righty ho, bottoms up,” she prompted, leaning on her elbows on the bar, straw in her mouth as she waited for me to do the same thing.
Warily, I picked up the spare straw and took a mouthful, almost dying for a second time tonight as the pretty much undiluted rum hit my raw throat. With a wink, Sadie sucked on her straw and waved her hand at me to do the same thing.
“Really?” Beau snapped, and then a third straw appeared in the glass as she joined us, gulping down a couple of healthy mouthfuls.
Once we were halfway down the glass, Sadie lifted her head. “Sorry, you were saying?” she asked, her question aimed at the woman who was patting her face dry with a cocktail napkin now.
Keeping my head down, I muttered, “Please, Jesus, don’t go into any more detail.”
And while we were on the subject, ish—and not that I had enough oxygen going to my brain yet—who the hell does that? And why the shit would they ever admit that they’d farted when they’d come to anyone, let alone a stranger behind a bar? It was a level of disgusting I couldn’t even get close to getting my head around.
It’s all shits and giggles until someone comes and farts, I guess.
“You’re right, Ramona, I did say that, but I’m here to see my friend,” a new deep voice said, and I spun around to see who it was. Doctor Chris Carter, the hottest doctor at the hospital. It was ironic, too, seeing as how Beau and I had been discussing the merits of waking up with a broken bone just to get his hands on us only an hour previously.
That was until this exact moment when we learned he could make women orgasm so hard that they farted, well at least it was that way for me. No woman wanted that on their conscience, but Beau might think it was worth it just to see him naked.
Glancing over my shoulder at her, I mouthed, “do I look like shit?” My mascara was waterproof, but that didn’t always mean it’d hold up. The way she held her hand up and wiggled it back and forth as if she was saying ‘ehhh’ didn’t fill me with the warm and fuzzies.
Here’s the other thing about our dreams of waking up with a broken bone so that Dr. Bet-He-Has-A-Huge-Stethoscope would put his hands on us—it had to be after a full body wax and sugar scrub, so we were fresh to death. Oh, and with a full face of makeup. It was what it was, I wasn’t going to feel ashamed by the fact I wouldn’t go and get medical help without looking my best. He was that kind of guy, but then so was Parker, and he’d seen me in some awful states, before and after I’d had surgery done to take me from hideous to meh.
Yeah, I’d had two procedures done, and I didn’t regret either of them. I wasn’t like my brothers. I didn’t wake up in the morning looking ready to roll without people running away and being hit by nightmares for the rest of their lives—I was the star of those nightmares unless I did my shit.
Did I take hours doing my hair and makeup, contouring, so I looked like a different person now? Fuck no. I only did what needed to be done.
Did I edit my social media photos so much so that people didn’t recognize me when they saw me in person? Fuck no, and those bitches pissed me off. People are going to see them in real life at some point, and it’d be obvious that they were an asshole who Photoshopped the shit out of themselves. I mean, come on, we’ve all giggled when we’ve come across it. What part of them thought people wouldn’t guess or that unedited photos of them wouldn’t make it online?