Page 142 of Rock Bottom Girl

Drunk Coach Vince sneered in my face. “You think you’re—”

“Hot shit,” I filled in. “Yeah. You already said that. Got anything new you’d like to add?”

“Pfft.” The smell of cheap beer and unbrushed teeth assailed my nostrils. “You’re a loser, Sickero. A looooooser.”

In the past, when someone other than myself identified my loser status, I’d felt shame. It was an open wound I dealt with secretly, never being good enough. However, hairy-backed Vince breathing gum disease in my face while calling me a loser was not upping my shame factor.

Huh. Weird.

“Well, Vince. It was great talking to you, as always. You should probably head back upstairs to that Boone’s Farm fountain,” I said, turning him around and giving him a gentle shove in the direction of the basement stairs.

Either I misjudged my own strength or his grip on sobriety. He tripped over a pink fur ottoman and landed chest- and face-first in the salsa and guacamole spread next to the bar.

“Uh, we should probably go upstairs immediately,” Vicky said, grabbing my hand and towing me toward the stairs.

“Sickero!” Vince roared. His face was a green mask of wounded rage. I choked down a laugh and ran for my life.

We escaped to the first floor of the house before we lost our shit.

“This definitely makes the Top Five Favorite Memories from Hostetter House Party.” Vicky gasped for breath.

“There are memories that beatthis?” I asked, jerking a thumb in the direction of the wounded wildebeest who couldn’t get his size fifteen shoes to carry him up the stairs.

“Rich and I had sex in Amie Jo’s whirlpool tub about eight years ago.”

I gaped at her.

“What?” Vicky asked innocently. “Married people can’t fornicate drunkenly at parties?”

“You are so much cooler than I give you credit for.”

“There’s my girl!” Jake hustled toward me, goofy grin on his face and a distinct lean to his gait. My cute, sexy boyfriend was drunk.

He picked me up and twirled me around while listing dangerously to the left. I bumped my head on a low-hanging hallway chandelier with—what else?—gold freaking swan necks and heads.

“Hey, you,” I said, patting him on the head. “How about you put me down?”

Jake pondered this suggestion while still holding me aloft.

“I beat your old boyfriend at poker,” he said.

“Let’s talk about it with my feet on the floor.”

He put me down. But before I could compliment him on his listening skills, he bent at the waist and tossed me over his shoulder.

A long-forgotten teenage girl survival mode kicked in. I knew exactly what Drunk Jake was planning to do.

He cheerfully slapped my ass and took off toward the back of the house at a labored jog.

“Vicky, stop recording,” I yelled at my friend who was chasing after us with her phone out.

“You might want to stop flicking me off and hang on for dear life,” she suggested.

“Carry on,” Jake said, saluting the catering staff in the kitchen before wrestling the back door open.

“Someone throw me a meat cleaver,” I begged.

But they ignored my pleas. We were drawing quite the crowd. I stopped wriggling when I felt cold night air on my ass. Great. I was mooning half of Culpepper.