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“Oh my God, Sky, you are such a prude,” Jane scoffed. “I promise, he’ll like it if he knows you think he’s good in bed.”
I took a sip of my beer, then turned to my friend with my very best “cat who ate the canary” face. “I’ll put it this way: so far, so good. Very good. Phenomenal, in fact. Like, best ever.”
“What’s the best ever?”
Brandon set the new pitcher on the table, then refilled his glass before he sat next to me. His arm slipped around to rest his hand at the base of my seat while his thumb gently massaged my lower back. Without even thinking, I leaned into his touch, which had come to feel so natural.
Jane looked at me, then grinned at Brandon. “Skylar was just telling me more about the clinic she’s been doing.”
“Er, yes. Kieran’s a good boss,” I said.
Brandon raised his eyebrows in a way that told me he knew I was full of it, but turned to Jane instead.
“And you two have been roommates since you started HLS, right?” he asked. “Were you friends immediately?”
Jane and I glanced at each other, considering the question.
“Not…not really,” she replied slowly. “I mean, we got along all right, but for the first several months, Sky wasn’t really around much. Aside from the fact that the first year of law school makes you want to kill yourself, she was always in New York. We didn’t really get close until the costume party, right?” She braced herself against the table in that way that indicated a serious story was about to be told. “I convinced her to go with me to this costume party the weekend after spring midterms.”
I groaned, leaning my head into my hands at the memory. “More like you blackmailed me.”
Brandon just watched our interactions with plain interest over the rim of his pint glass. After a few drinks, Jane and I morphed into a female version of Laurel and Hardy. I was curious what he’d think; our particular brand of mind-reading humor wasn’t for everyone.
“I wasn’t going to go,” I continued. “I was heartbroken, you know, because of Patrick”—Jane’s eyebrows raised at the casual name drop and Brandon’s familiar nod, but I kept talking—“but Jane got me shit-faced the night before the party, then bet me I couldn’t recite the Preamble without any mistakes.” I point a finger down on the table for emphasis. “Which, by the way, I know cold. Top of the class in Con Law.”
“I don’t know if you know this yet, Brandon, but Raggedy Ann here can’t say no to a bet,” Jane added. “It’s a genetic trait.”
Brandon’s eyes flickered curiously at the mention of gambling, but he didn’t say anything. “Yeah, I’ve noticed something like that.”
I stuck my tongue out, and he laughed. He had challenged me to a few more runs since our first, and while my legs didn’t cramp as badly as they did that first time, I still had yet to win any wagers.
“Well, this was definitely one of those times,” Jane continued before tossing back the rest of her beer. She raised a hand to signal for another round before continuing.
“So, let me guess. You guys dressed up as…Playboy Bunnies. With ears and tails and the whole nine yards? Am I close?”
Since Brandon was almost finished with his second beer, “yards” came out sounding like “yahds,” and I couldn’t help but grin. He sounded both adorable and sexy when his accent came out.
“God, men are such amateurs,” Jane scoffed. “No, that’s only embarrassing because it’s objectifying, and I, my Ken Doll-looking friend, am way better than that. You see, this was a Dylan party. As in, you had to come dressed up as your favorite Dylan song. Now, did you also happen to know that our redheaded Horowitz can’t stand Bob Dylan?”
“His chord structures are all exactly the same, and he sounds like a tone-deaf asthmatic,” I protested with a slam of my hand on the table. I had had this debate with Jane, a die-hard Dylan fanatic, many times over; she knew exactly how to push my buttons. “Sure, he writes some decent verses, but I swear to God, I could play every single one of his early songs at the same exact time, and it would sound like one track.” I turned to Brandon. “Please tell me you’re not a fan. I don’t think I could take it if you were.”
Brandon shrugged. “I’m more of a Springsteen guy myself.”
I breathed out an exaggerated sigh. “Whew! Crisis averted.”
“So, because she lost the bet,” Jane continued as she topped off everyone’s glasses, “not only did she have to attend this party that would only feature the musical stylings of a one Mr. Zimmerman, but she also had to dress up with me as a song of my choosing.”
“Which one did you choose?” Brandon asked.
“The worst, most overrated song he ever wrote,” I said bitterly. “Not to mention the worst costume in the world.”
Jane grinned over her beer. “Tambourine Man.”
“What’s wrong with that one?” Brandon asked me. “I think it’s kind of catchy.”
I threw my hands up in the air. “Ugh, where do I begin? First of all, it’s about six…verses…too…long. It has no variation in phrasing. The Byrds did a decent cover, but Dylan’s changes are terrible. I could go on.”
“She really could,” Jane chimed in. “I’ve heard her.”
