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If he rolled his eyes any harder, they’d pop out of their sockets.
“The point is that I’m the last man standing, so I win.”
A bunch of guys start cheering in a super obnoxious way. It becomes imperative that I stand up and show them that’s not true.
Between JT and Chelsea, they help me get to my feet. But instead of the cheers I expect, someone whistles in a way that makes my skin crawl.
JT cringes. “Oh, crap. Girl, you’re giving a show.”
“What show?”
I glance down to where she points. My vision’s blurry, and I seem to have four boobs. All of which are pretty clear, with my white top gone practically transparent.
CHAPTER 9
MAX
Tinker Bell is wild.
Not only is it a bad idea to take me on a drinking challenge, but now she’s absolutely cracked up about the fact she fell into the tub. Her pink bra isn’t hiding much from the onlookers, but it doesn’t seem to faze her.
It’s rattling me, though. Much more than the pool of beer in my stomach.
I turn around and push a couple of guys out of the room.
“Hey, man!”
“Show’s over.” I grunt, hoping they catch the drift. This may not bother her right now, but tomorrow morning might be a different story. I might’ve come here with the intention of raining on the Strikes’ parade—and mission accomplished on that—but I’m not some perv.
“But—”
“Out.”
I manage to shut the door, leaving the crowd outside. Both of her friends are trying to hide her from view, but they’re tipsy too. The swaying doesn’t provide a significant barrier between her and the onlookers.
“Any towels?” I glance around, trying to spot one. All I see is a soggy roll of toilet paper by the sink.
The one with all the piercings raises her hand. “I’ll go find one.”
She braves the door. The second it’s open, people want to tumble inside to get a drink. It takes more work than I care to admit to close it again.
What are the odds the Strike will actually return with a towel? In a strange house, packed with people in various states of drunkenness, that’d be a feat harder than finding someone sober.
Meanwhile, Tinker Bell pushes her hair back with clumsy hands. It’s stuck to her face and neck. Her cheeks and nose are red from the cold or the beer, but there are no makeup smudges.
A string of words I don’t recognize tumble out of her mouth, and then she says, “My phone.”
“Oh, it must be so dead,” the other girl says, the one with reddish hair.
“No.”
I want to laugh. Except I keep getting distracted by the crop top and the way it’s stuck to the curves and ridges of her chest like a second skin. It doesn’t even hide the texture of her bra’s lace.
Shit, I wouldn’t have pegged Tinker Bell for a lace girl.
I shake my head hard enough to rattle my brain back in place. Can’t start wondering if there’s lace under her jeans.
I grab the hem of my T-shirt and pull it up. The air in the bathroom feels cold as ice against my skin, but Tinker Bell must be straight-up freezing.
