Page 25

I t’s almost 3 pm, when I walk out of my interview with a latte as big as my head, a job, and a boss who is equally, if not more obsessed with the guy I’m kind of obsessed with. As a way to ease my nerves, I’d tried to schedule it earlier in the day, but as Casey said several times, “ The service industry is all about service, Lotte.” Duh. “Study break, lunch break, breakdowns and interviews are scheduled around them.”

“We need to celebrate and I know the perfect way.” Quinn squeals into my ear as we walk/hug back to my place.

“No Quinn, I told you I’m not interested in coming to Troye’s Kappa WiFi party.”

“Kappa Psi, Lotte.”

“Whatever. I’m not going. If anything I should be going to watch Noah play.” Post interview jitters fuel me as I shake her off and storm ahead.

“If you really want to keep Claire as a friend, and move on from Noah before you get in too deep, this is most definitely the way to do it. Trust me, going to the game is a mistake … hey, slow down.” I don’t slow down, in fact I speed up.

By the time we reach my apartment building both Quinn and I are laughing, coughing, breathless wrecks looking anything but party ready. Still, that doesn’t stop her dogged determination.

“It will be so much fun, Lotte and if anyone needs some fun in their life, it’s you. All you have to do is shower, shave or wax, do your nails, hair and makeup, and get dressed.”

“Oh, that’s all? No breast augmentation?”

Quinn stops and props her hands on her hips. “Lotte, you can’t get your boobs done with that short of notice. And besides, they’re huge and weirdly perky. A surgeon can’t better what God did.”

I’m so busy, floating, basking in the compliment I pay no attention to Quinn as she drags me inside then into my room, pulling me to a halt at the foot of my bed. There, perfectly laid out is what I think may be a dress made for an eight-year-old, a pair of fluffy black bunny ears I instantly adore, and black pumps I could mortally wound with.

Consider the bubble popped.

“It’s a costume party? You got me a costume for a costume party before you even knew if I would come?”

Without a hint of remorse, Quinn nods. “I did. I knew you’d get the job and like I said, you need to celebrate, and the only way to toast a career in beverage preparation is going out and drinking as many as you can, and no better way to get over a guy than by getting under another one.”

“While dressed as a slutty rabbit?”

“Yes. While dressed as a slutty rabbit.”

“Stop pulling your dress down and playing with your ears.”

“But it’s so short, and they are soft and fluffy and rubbing them is the only thing keeping me from jumping off the train. Is that what you want, Quinn? You want me to jump to my death to avoid this stupid party?” I’m acting like a whiny spoiled brat, but I am dressed like a Playboy bunny. I expect brat-ish behavior comes with the territory.

Quinn slaps my hands away from my head and holds them on hers. “No jumping to your death and no weird ear stroking. We are sexy, male fantasy types. There is no need for us to touch ourselves in such a manner. That’s what the boys are for.”

An involuntary eye roll is met with a look of steely determination. Quinn, dressed as a German Beer-wench, is equally, if not more stubborn than me. The time to get out of this was before succumbing to further compliments and slipping the dress on. I have no chance now.

Signaling my time as a college party virgin is about to end, our train comes to a squealing halt and a mix of overworked office workers, grease covered tradesmen and scantily dressed party goers exit alongside us, emerging from the starkly lit carriage into a soothing, pink late Autumn sunset.

After cracking down on hazing and other serious no-no’s, there are no official dorm houses on BU campus, so Quinn drags me to a residential area a block or two away from the stop. The streets are filled with trees of amber, gold and red, some already bare. But when I’m pulled off the sidewalk and redirected down a cobblestone path that leads to a virtual oasis, its green foliage, green shrubs, and even greener lawns as far as the eye can see.

“Considering what I know of frat boys, I do not want to know how they water or fertilize these lawns.”

“I know, right. I said the same thing to Troye.” Quinn beams, “He’s really into gardening and assured me it’s all legit. Those trees are like his pets.”

It’s hard not to notice a distinct look of swoon in her eyes. “Huh. Interesting.”

“What?”

“Well, you’ve implied that you were not dating another hockey boy ever again, and that whatever is going on between you and Troye is strictly casual. But your face says the opposite.”

“It is casual.” She insists, “But I like him. A lot. But it’s also complicated. Kinda of messy. But great.”

“Sounds like me and Noah.” If dread wasn’t already my main emotion, that one thought of Captain Petterson has got it there. I’m in a dress I would never wear without near waterboarding, shoes I can’t feel my toes in and ears … well, the ears are adorable. I glance towards the house, if you can call it that. It’s closer to a mini mansion. “I’m getting weird vibes from the knockoff of Graceland. Let’s just go home. We can order some food and pig out in our PJ’s.”

“I don’t know what Graceland is, but it doesn’t matter because we are not leaving. I promised Troye we’d be here, and I promised you a good time.” The words have hardly left her mouth when a drunken party goer dressed as a nun, bursts through the open front door, and everything he or she or they drank, projectiles from their mouth. Quinn points to the still heaving sister and giggled with glee. “See. Look how much fun people are having. Come on, you sexy little puck bunny, let’s go find some trouble.”

Boy did we find trouble.

As much as her boobs are spilling from Quinn’s dress, this night is out of control. Like Troye, who when sober, seems to be a sweet, handsome and respectable guy … despite the lip piercing. Quinn has drunk her body weight in beer and shots. There’s been three fights, two smashed windows, and one guy named DeAngelo, that will not leave me, or my ears, the fuck alone. Oh, I’ve lost the little bag I bought with me that contained my ID and money, so I have no way to get home.

I’m tired. In truth, a little scared, and really pissed at Quinn, and me, for being in this situation. I’m also starting to think this whole friend’s thing is not for me. It’s a friend who I’m tempted to call to my rescue, though. A friend that I’ve typed and deleted umpteen messages too.

DeAngelo returns from wherever he’d slunk off too, slips his arm around my shoulder and tugs at my ears. “Miss me, Little Bunny?”

Bitter bile rises in my throat, and I’m tempted to cough it over DeAngelo and see if the grossness is enough to get rid of him. Then I remember Quinn telling me how on trend spitting is in her smutty books, and I think better of it. A simple, “No,” will suffice.

“Great. Wanna dance?”

“No.”

“Wanna drink?”

“No.”

“Wanna fuck?”

And that’s it.

“What part of no don’t you understand?” The dickhead raises his hands and brows and licks his lips. The word challenge is written all over his face.

“Calm down, gorgeous. You’re way too tense. If you come up to my room, I’m sure I can help you to relax.” Creepoid keeps running his mouth, but it’s all in one ear and out the other, because I’m too busy retyping that SOS.

Hey, Noah. I’m sorry but, when you’ve finished your game, do you think you could drive over to Troye’s and pick me and possibly Quinn up? We’re at a party and I need to leave.

Not two seconds later, my phone is buzzing in my hand.

Noah

On my way.

On my way? I glance at the time. This night has gone downhill fast, and it’s only 10.30. His team has probably just left the ice, so I don’t expect him any time soon. Quinn is still dancing and DeAngelo is still looming, so I slip through the mass of bodies on the makeshift dance floor and tap Quinn on the shoulder. “We’re leaving. Let’s go wait outside.”

She shakes her head and does a massive sick burp that smells like beer and Cheetos. “I’m having too much fun and plan on having too much sex. We are not leaving, party pooper.”

Equilibrium may be absent in the pair, but Troye at least still has some sense. “You are wasted, Harris. We’re not having sex.”

“Booooo,” she moans. “You suck.”

“Yeah. Yeah,” he grumbles, a sly smile twitching the stud in his lip. “Outside.”

It feels like forever till we make it, but that initial burst of untainted air filling my lungs, is something I’ll never take for granted, again. Quinn, who at some point in the journey ended up draped over Troye’s shoulder, seems to be asleep, but the pack horse himself seems to appreciate it as much.

“Thank fuck you called it a night, West. I’d been trying to get Quinny to leave for ages. You order a ride already?”

From the corner of my eye, I see a familiar black truck pull up. “Kind of.”

“What do you mean kind … no fucking way.” All night, there had been a glittering warmth in Troye’s deep brown eyes whenever he looked at Quinn, but two bulking, still padded up, hockey players storm our way, they morph into menacing, shark-like black pinholes. Relief, and a tingling calmness wraps around me like one of Gran’s hugs. It’s obvious Noah is struggling to find the same state of zen. Still wearing one glove, his cheeks are flushed, there’s a weird, almost possessed looking smile, and his eyes are simultaneously roaming my body and bulging out of his head.

Brady is not smiling. He looks like he’s ready to commit murder as he bustles towards Troye. “What the fuck is wrong with you, Becker? Noah insists you’re a great guy. That this party animal crap isn’t your scene, so again. What the fuck?”

“How the fuck do you two know what is or isn’t my scene?” Troye snarls.

“Dude,” Noah balks, “I’ve known you half my life. Of course I know.”

“Yeah, well, things change. For instance, I like to party with hot girls, and you like to be friends with lame dicks named Skippy.”

“My name is not Skippy.” Brady grunts so deeply I feel the rattle on my chest, and lunges at Troye. As Quinn’s legs swing between them, they fist each other’s shirts, get right in each other’s faces and growl some more.

“Oh, sorry for the mistake, Skip. Bet you never get my name wrong when you’re jerking off over my photos.”

“Hey!” The movement stirs Quinn who raises her head and attempts to yell but only manages a drawn slur. “Troye, that’s mean.”

Utter contempt fills what I’m sure could be a handsome face. “Yeah, well maybe I’ve had enough … Of him, and you.” With that, he releases his grip of Brady’s jersey, pulls himself free and practically throws Quinn into Brady’s arms, leaving her a mess, Brady a raging ball of … rage. As for me. All I want to do is go back to my apartment, slide into my bed, and never come out.