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“Come on, Lou, let’s get our drinks on. Tell me about yourself and your hopes and dreams, and I’ll tell you how shitty Bea is.” She said her name sarcastically, but at least she said ‘Bea.’
“I’ll be right there.”
“Grab a shirt for Lou. She’ll get hot in that sweater and will want something thinner later.” Harper slammed the door behind them.
Half an hour later, Buzz walked into The Grog and was greeted by half the people in the room. Hopefully, nobody actually talked to her about her job. She didn’t even know how she would deflect that.
After grabbing a drink at the bar, she spotted Harper and Louisa sitting in the back booth, which was her favorite spot in the place. They seemed to be getting along, which wasn’t usual. Harper could befriend anyone; keeping that friend was her problem. She was too outspoken for most people.
Harper was a known pincher, so Buzz slid in next to Louisa. Setting the light blue shirt and her drink on the table, she ignored Harper.
“How’s it going?” she asked Louisa.
“Good,” the girl answered.
“You sent me drinking with a minor, Buzz. You know I hate that,” Harper stated, though the kid had a drink—a tall, girly drink with a lot of alcohol.
That was why they choose The Grog—everyone got served. Well, probably not everyone, but a fair share of minors got drunk here often. Happily, the college crowd and the dead-beat high schoolers didn’t go there. Just the regulars and their friends, and sometimes when needed, their little sisters.
“Did you two order pizza or something? Louisa didn’t eat supper.” She had forgotten in the wake of the fight to tell Harper.
“Popcorn, but I’ll get something,” Harper stated but only turned to the bar and yelled that she wanted a pizza. The bartender waved at her. “Ordered.”
“So, what are we talking about?”
“Lou’s big brother is trying to get into your pants. Now, I don’t see it; the hair always makes you not as pretty as me, but to each his own.” Harper actually reached out and touched a lock of Buzz’s hair and looked at it in wonder, as if it wasn’t actually the color Buzz had been born with.
“Did she tell you about the guy who was into her and then not?” Buzz asked, because that was why they were there tonight, for Louisa.
“Guys are shit; you always have to remember that. It’s never you, no matter what they say. How old is this guy?”
Louisa sighed. “Twenty.”
“Well then, he’s not in charge; his dick is. Forget him. Never date anyone under twenty-five, and the closer to thirty, the better,” Harper said matter-of-factly.
“She’s only nineteen,” Buzz reminded her sister.
“Which is why she shouldn’t be worried about a guy. She has to spend these years thinking with her dick and screw anyone she can. When I was your age, I moved in with a guy and spent three, maybe four, years with him. Big mistake. I wasted my entire time in France on that man. I missed a lot of French cock.” She took a long drink of her beer.
Louisa was just staring at her as if she was speaking French. Which to a sheltered kid, she was. Nobody at Louisa’s house usually talked about sowing their wild oats. Louisa had a blush more scarlet than Buzz had ever seen.
Buzz nodded at Louisa. “Maybe tone it down a little.”
Harper laughed and said, “Marry young, sex only on your anniversary, valentine’s day, and both your birthdays. And never stray, Lou. That is the secret to a happy life. And you maybe want to put on the T-shirt. You look hot and flushed.”
“I’m okay,” Louisa argued, her face red from chin to hairline.
“Which one did you get her?” Harper asked Buzz, pointing at the shirt.
There were boxes and boxes of T-shirts at the house from when their sister Lucy had a screen-printing business one summer. She’d made so many mistakes that just went into boxes in the basement. So, if extra clothes were needed, you just grabbed a shirt. Not to mention that every one of the sisters wore the shirts with pride, mistakes and all.
Holding it up, she grinned. It said “WOL” in florescent green. The colors in no way matched. Finding out that Lucy had dyslexia had explained why everything was spelled wrong, but the mismatched colors were still a mystery.
Harper gasped and slammed a hand to her chest. “I. Love. It. I want it.”
“It’s Louisa’s,” she reminded her sister, who was already pulling off her pink T-shirt that said “D” on it.
Once topless, Harper pouted, then turned to Louisa and said, “Can we change shirts? I want that one so damn bad. You can either have mine, or I’ll make Buzz give you hers.”
