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PROLOGUE
Emily
“Oh my God, tequila, you suck!”
Five months ago
Somewhere in some valley in California… I think.
“…and then I told her she could take my pom-poms and shove them right up her stupid, fat ass.”
My friend Carson’s mouth drops open with a dramatic gasp when I finish telling him about the worst three minutes of my life, while I finish the best three shots of tequila of my life. I slam the empty shot glass back down on the temporary bar cart set up in the corner of this monstrosity of a home he dragged me to.
“I can’t believe I threw my pom-poms at her,” I mutter, fanning my face when the alcohol hits my bloodstream, the air in this room feeling like it just went up twenty degrees. The black, long-sleeved, cropped turtleneck I’m wearing suddenly feels like a fur coat. “I really wanted to keep those as a memento. They’re so pretty, and sparkly, and—Ow!”
My shout of pain from the smack of Carson’s hand against my arm cuts off my complaining, making several heads at this house party turn to stare directly at us and away from a flat-screen mounted to the far wall, where ESPN is showing highlight clips of the Vipers playing in the Super Bowl last season.
“You absolutely did not say that to Ellen Westwood!” Carson finally speaks, after I spent the last fifteen minutes quickly word-vomiting how I got fired from being a professional cheerleader for one of the best and most popular teams in the Professional Football League. Setting down his crystal champagne flute a waiter gave him when we walked in the door, Carson presses both of his hands over his heart dramatically. “Tell me you did not say that to the director of the Vipers Cheerleading Association for the last twenty-five years. A national treasure who had her own reality show on the making of the Vipers Cheerleaders, and who people love to hate. Whose daddy with one foot in the grave owns the Vipers football team and lets her do whatever she wants. Ice queen extraordinaire and someone whose level of pettiness I can only dream of someday reaching, whose photo is in the dictionary next to Resting Bitch Face, and whose job, rumor had it, you were in line to get when she retires next year.”
“Yep” is my only reply as I let out a deep sigh, while also trying to smile sweetly at the busy bartender, and point to my thrice-empty shot glass.
“It’s true what they say about redheads.” Carson sighs with a shake of his head as I turn to look at him while I wait for the bartender. His eyes never leaving mine, Carson reaches next to him and blindly dips his fingertips into his champagne flute on the bar. “You’re the devil.”
With that, he flicks his wet fingers at my face, followed up with a quick wave of his hand in front of me in the sign of the cross, like he’s trying to holy-champagne-water Satan out of me.
“Emily Jean Flanagan!” he scolds, while I roll my eyes and swipe at the dots of champagne on my face, his loud voice making people in our general vicinity of this boring living room that looks like no one has ever lived in it, stare at us again.
Normally, I enjoy being the center of attention, but right now, I’m too busy getting drunk on top-shelf tequila I don’t have to pay for, and I just want to be in my feelings without all eyes on me. Carson’s use of my full name just makes everything in my life right now suck even more, reminding me of my best friend Wren back home on Summersweet Island in Virginia, and how she always admonishes me this way.
And how she hasn’t been answering her damn phone every time I’ve called to tell her about this huge, life-altering event that happened over a week ago!
“Ellen Westwood is, like, really smart with a PhD and has a perfect ass!” Carson continues to scold me. Loudly.
“I know!” I cry, feeling worse every time I think about that day.
As the makeup artist for the Vipers Cheerleaders, hired for any promotional events or photoshoots, Carson has poured many a glass of alcohol for me over the last four years when I’ve missed my girls back home and our Sip and Bitch tradition of gathering at the local ice cream shop to drink and complain about our woes. He’s also let me pour my heart out to him during the many hours I’ve sat in his makeup chair. He’s like a friend and a therapist all rolled into one, who can do the most fabulous smoky eye I’ve ever seen in my life in less than a minute. He knows everything there is to know about the Vipers organization, since people seem to forget he’s in the room and get extra chatty on their phones in his chair. And he has idolized Ellen Westwood for probably as long as I had.
