First Dance (Strip in the City, Book 3)

07 • Come Hell or High Water

Kennedy

Why on god's green earth did I only pack tank tops and t-shirts that had something to do with gettin' married silk-screened across the chest?

Probably because this is my bachelorette party, and that's what girls who were getting married next month did. They bought all the cheesy shirts and wore them proudly during their weekend of fun.

I pull the least offensive shirt out of my suitcase–Boots, Booze & Besties, and throw it on over a sports bra. Then I pull on a pair of black leggings.

With my wet hair in a twisted knot at the top of my head, I'm going for the most hungover bride-to-be to ever be dragged to brunch look. And girl, I'm pulling it off. Especially when I slide on my sparkly rhinestone cowboy boots.

Even though I am most certainly feeling the effects of last night's whiskey, I'm more messed up over Flynn putting me through hell, my night with Lucas, and then the dang tittie picture.

My shoulders sag as I stare at myself in the mirror. Who am I kidding? This look is more sad girl in leggings than hungover bride. If I'm gonna act like nothing's wrong, I should put on the Gettin' Hitched shirt, but I can't make myself do it.

I need to talk to Flynn first. But he still hasn't responded to my text.

I try not to imagine what he's doing instead of answering his phone, but images I don't want in my head show up anyway.

As I slide on a pair of huge dark sunglasses to hide my puffy eyes, I tell myself that I can't be feeling all these feelings right now. I need to pretend like nothing happened.

I can do that. Easy. Detach and dissociate like a balloon stuck on the ceiling. I've done it a million times. Add in a little acting to sell the hungoverness, and I'm tricking everyone.

My plan goes just fine for about two seconds.

"I have not been this hungover since my graduation party, I swear," I announce loudly as I slink down the stairs and into the kitchen, where everyone is waiting for me.

Including Lucas. And Clara. Who are both talking to Tan and Maren. Casually. Holding hands.

Holding hands?

Jesus. I need a prayer for strength right now because last night's whiskey ain't sitting right with the anger curling my hands into fists and the scowl I'm shooting their way.

What the hell is happening?

Lucas turns to face me, and his easy smile sours. Clara turns to face me as well. Her grin only widens as she leans into him. Pressing her big ole titties right against his arm. I bet he loves that.

She's all dolled up in a too-tight tank top that says Gettin' Rowdy, and the too-short pair of jean shorts her momma would have a fit to see her wearing.

"Well, look who finally got out of bed!" Clara says. "You're gonna need some toast and grits to sop up all the whiskey you drank last night, cousin."

I ignore her comment because if I don't I'm gonna say something scathing about her outfit that wouldn't make Mamaw proud and instead barrel toward the front door like the room's on fire.

Tan and Maren chase after me, but they don't beat me to the door. I hear someone say something about me looking like I'm gonna puke, and I think they might be right.

Everything is coming up and I can't keep it down.

I grip the wrought iron railing as the warm sun beats down on me. Sweat beads along my forehead.