Page 11 of Hot Mess
“I don’t,” I said.
“Wrong answer, sweetheart.” Summer put a shot glass in my hand.
“Where’s the bourbon?” Jesse asked, and Amber started crawling around, trying to find it for him. Summer passed out the shot glasses and Roni started pouring.
As we rolled through downtown, I tried to look out the windows, keeping at least one eye peeled for yellow boots and red roses in the rain.
Really wasn’t so easy to do, what with all the shots.
Chapter Two
Danica
Iwoke from a dream about Ashley Player.
Not that kind of dream. My imagination wasn’t that good to me.
Nope, I was backstage at a rock concert, and he was standing next to me. And apparently, we were both members of Metallica.
He had black wristbands on and he was holding one of those white guitars James Hetfield always played, and I had a bass guitar. At least I was pretty sure it was a bass. We were about to go onstage in front of about a billion screaming fans, inseconds, and I had no idea how to play “Master of Puppets.”
I was supposed to know.
But I didn’t.
Total panic dream.
Weird, because I’d never known how to play any musical instrument.
I rubbed my eyes as I shook off the dream, sighing as I realized that Taylor was playing “Master of Puppets” next door—too loudly. It was her wake-up alarm, and it wasn’t doing its job very well.
Woke me up before it woke her up.
Almost every morning.
I reached over and banged on the wall, half-heartedly. Fifty-percent chance she didn’t even hear me. Unfortunately, it wasSundaymorning. I didn’t have to work today. Apparently, she did.
But there was really no going back to sleep with Metallica throbbing through the wall.
I was about to drag myself up to make my morning tea when I heard a sound coming from my kitchen. Something like a small raccoon helping itself to snacks from my cupboards. This was the problem with a studio apartment: no privacy. Even when, in theory, you lived alone.
“I didn’t even hear you come in,” I said, stretching and kicking off the covers. When I didn’t receive an immediate response, for a split second I wondered if I actually had a raccoon.
“I was trying not to wake you,” came the voice, muffled by crunching.
I sat up, and there was my twin sister, Daniella, with her hand in a box of granola.
“No, you weren’t.” I swung my legs over the side of the bed and grabbed a sweatshirt and pajama shorts from the lounge chair by the bed. I was a naked sleeper, one of the many reasons I preferred to live alone. “You’re worse than a raccoon.” I yawned and pulled on the clothes.
“Don’t you have anything for bagels?” my sister asked. “Cream cheese? Light?”
“Don’t you have a home?”
“Yes, but I don’t have bagels.”
“The grocery store does. The one right on your block?”
“You know I don’t keep food at my place,” was her response.
