Kiss Me Not (Kiss Me 1)

She had at least half of my king-sized bed, leaving me and Reagan to squish on one side. Reagan had it better than I did since she was on the edge. I was squashed between two grown women, one of whom had bigger boobs the other two of us put together.

Cough, cough, in the direction of the bed hog, Ava.

I almost fell off the end of the bed and stubbed my toe on the leg. “Ouch!”

“What?!” Ava jolted awake, almost sitting bolt upright. “Are we being burgled? Who’s kidnapping us?”

“No, you sheet stealer,” Reagan snapped, yanking the sheets over to her side. “It’s Halley waking up.”

“Although I’d totally offer you up if there was a kidnapper,” I grumbled, rubbing the back of my stiff neck. I’d spent half the night avoiding her wayward elbows.

I left the room before she could reply and locked myself in the bathroom. The thumping in my head hadn’t subsided at all, and my teeth felt all gummy like I hadn’t brushed them for a week.

I turned on the shower and brushed my teeth while it got up to temperature. It was a day for a scalding hot one, so I scrubbed at my teeth, gums, and tongue until the bathroom was filled with steam and I couldn’t see myself in the mirror anymore.

Narrowly avoiding stubbing my toe on the way into the cubicle, I breathed a sigh of relief as the hot air pounded down onto me.

I spent a good fifteen minutes soaking in the hot water and washing myself off. Despite my headache, I was feeling much better when I finally exited the steamy bathroom and went in search of my glasses.

I located them on the coffee table and ignored the mess that was there. Two pizza boxes, a box that had held potato wedges, empty glasses, lonely and dry slices of lime, and two empty pints of ice-cream all accompanied the stack of tissues that we’d left in a pile on the floor, thanks to our cry-a-ton.

Note to self: do not watch The Notebook while drunk.

It doesn’t end well.

I clutched the towel to my chest and went back into my room. Ava was asleep again, snoring with her mouth wide open in an expression my stepmom liked to call ‘catching flies.’ Reagan was awake and on her phone, swiping her thumb up and down the screen.

She glanced over at me. “Nice hair.”

I flipped her the bird and went to my dresser. “You’re working today?”

She nodded. “Yeah. That bridal spread I said last night. Although I had a voicemail from the bride saying she wants to meet tomorrow instead as something came up.” She shrugged. “Works for me, since someone is a bad influence.” She nodded in Ava’s direction.

“You’re adults,” Ava muttered, snorting and rolling over so she wasn’t facing us anymore. “Don’t blame me for your bad decisions.”

She had a point.

“Go get a shower. I’ll get dressed and turn the coffee maker on.” I pulled underwear out of the top drawer.

Reagan peeled herself out of bed and came over to me, plucking a peach, lace bra out of the drawer. “This makes your boobs look good.”

I looked down at it. “I don’t want my boobs to look good.”

“Why not? You should always want your boobs to look good.”

“Because there’s nobody to appreciate how good my boobs look.”

“I ‘preciate it,” Ava murmured sleepily.

Reagan took the plain t-shirt bra from me. “So do I. So should you. Wear the good bra, Halley.”

“It’s just a bra.” Was I really listening to a half-asleep, hungover person and another hungover person, albeit a lot more awake than the other?

Yes, I was.

Why?

Because I was hungover, too, and it was becoming quite clear that I was the queen of bad decisions.

“Fine.” I snatched the bra from Reagan, and she flounced off the shower with a grin of satisfaction of her face.

I wasn’t satisfied. Not at all. What my boobs looked like didn’t matter. I punctuated that thought by grabbing some ripped jean shorts and a basic black tank top.

Ava was asleep again if the gentle sound of snoring was anything to go by, so I changed quickly and took my hairdryer into the living room. She was a sleeper, for sure, and I wasn’t the person who wanted to wake her up.

You know how they say not to wake a sleeping baby?

Yeah. Don’t wake a sleeping Ava is more like it.

By the time I’d dried and curled my hair, Reagan was done in the shower and was pouring us both coffee. I took my mug without a word and went back to the mirror to do my makeup. I held off on the lipstick because I’d apply it when I got to the tent, but I finished the coffee in record time.

When I was done, Reagan emerged from my bedroom. She was sans-makeup, plus messy, wet bun, and wearing a pair of my yoga pants and one of my shirts.