covered. Or, Hollis does.” I laugh. “She’s arranged to have a truck for me—I have to get stuff out of storage and into my second-story walk-up.” I pull a face.
Madison mimics it, sticking out her tongue. “Second story is bad, but it could be worse. I’m four floors up in an eighty-year-old building, and the elevator never works. It’s horrible—I can never move.” She sips out of her wine glass and watches Ginger. “Whose truck is it?”
“Um…I think Trace is in charge of that?”
Madison’s head tilts. “I don’t think he has a truck—then again, maybe he does. I doubt it would be hard to find one with all those hunky men he’s friends with. Or his brother?”
His brother. Track or Trevor, or another name I can’t remember. The guy I’ll see at the wedding, which, rumor has it, he had to be browbeaten into participating in. Cannot play nice.
Great. I hear he’s a real peach and a bit of an asshole.
Buzz, the groom, adores him.
Hero worship, Hollis said—although Buzz would never admit it. Not to her, not to anyone. He adores his older brother, I’m told. If his brother goes to his parents’, Buzz goes to his parents’. If his brother takes a vacation, Buzz tags along. When his brother moved closer to Chicago, Buzz moved closer to Chicago.
They bicker like crazy. They argue in public. They whine and complain about each other—but that’s the sibling love I would expect from two professional athletes in the same family. It’s what makes them great at their jobs, I would assume.
“Do you need any help?” Madison’s voice interrupts my musing.
“You’re volunteering to help someone move?” Is she crazy? I hate moving and doubt I’d subject myself to it if it could be helped.
“I mean—I could fetch coffee and donuts and pizza for lunch. Refreshments and the like.” Her pink wig gets in her mouth, stuck to her glossy lips, and she sputters. “Moving boxes? Not so much. Food services? Yes.”
My place might be too small for random people who aren’t pitching in. “I think we’ll be okay—it’s not a huge storage space, more like the size of a one-car garage.”
Madison visibly relaxes. “Phew, ’cause I hate moving people and suck at it. I’m likely to disappear on you anyway.” Her eyes roam to a table nearby and she leans, grabbing a tote bag by the handle and yanking it our direction. Peers inside, eyes lighting up as she pilfers through it, plucking up a rectangular box. “Use this tonight and you won’t be stressed out tomorrow. Guaranteed.”
It’s The Quickie, in a discreet package but distinguishable all the same.
Hollis’s best friend tilts her head. “Have you used a vibrator before?”
I can’t lie. Shrug my shoulders when words fail me. I mean, come on—I’m twenty-four years old, but…
“You’ve never…” Madison jiggles the box, close enough to my face that I want to smack it out of her hand.
“It’s not a crime.”
“No, but it should be.” Her eyes roam my face, taking in my red-hot cheeks then straying to my light pink hair. The lacy straps on my blush dress, the rash spreading across my chest from nerves. “So—never?”
I shrug again. “I was too busy with homework and graduating early to worry too much about sex.”
“This isn’t about sex—this is about self-care. An orgasm can seriously take the edge off after a long day. Plus, it can add years to your life. I read that once.”
Maybe. But still…it never crossed my mind. And I was never in a relationship, which placed orgasms far down on my list of priorities. Way, way down. Like—at the end, on a separate sheet of paper. Written in invisible ink.
“Not to get personal, but…” She leans in close. “Chandler, have you ever…you know.”
I narrow my eyes. If she’s trying to find out if I’m a virgin, she’ll have to come right out and ask, because I’m not going to make this easy on her. It’s none of her business, and I haven’t decided if I want to make it such.
“You know what—don’t answer that. It’s none of my business. But do yourself a favor and take this out of the box when you get home. Get comfortable and…don’t overthink it.” She pats me on the shoulder, fingers squeezing.
I’m saved from this conversation by my drunkish cousin, in her cute all-white outfit, giggling into her lacy Madonna-circa-1989 fingerless gloves.
“Would y’all mind if we met the boys out?”
Y’all? Is she Southern now?
“Where?” Madison wants to know, a gleam in her boy-crazy eyes.