Total pages in book: 112
Estimated words: 108049 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 540(@200wpm)___ 432(@250wpm)___ 360(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 108049 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 540(@200wpm)___ 432(@250wpm)___ 360(@300wpm)
ME: Cool. Text me.
I toss the phone on my bed and head to the dresser in search of some gym shorts. Guess I’ll go for a run since I can’t even get my fake girlfriend to let me eat her pussy. Never too early to start working on my cardio.
19
Taylor
I just about swallow my tongue when I read the text from Conor. That man has the very annoying habit of catching me off guard during Kappa meetings.
“What’s so funny?” Sasha rips my phone out of my hand after I send a reply to Conor. I lunge at her, but my best friend is too quick. Former gymnast and all. Bitch.
“‘Can I come over and go down on you?’” she reads aloud, jumping to her feet to get away. I chase her to a standoff around the antique coffee table in the huge living room. Everything in this room is some priceless artifact donated by an alumnus for some dumb reason. “Eggplant emoji, splash emoji, peach—”
“Shut up.” I hop the table to yank the phone back. “He did not send come-on-my-ass emojis.”
“It’s called subtext, Taylor.” Sasha winks at me with a shit-eating grin. “I’m so proud of you.”
“I’d let Conor Edwards come on my stuffed turtle if he wanted to,” Rachel blurts out.
“We know, Rach.” Olivia mimes throwing up in her mouth. “Fucking psycho.”
“You said yes, right?” Beth is jerking a straw in and out of her smoothing cup. “Please tell me you said yes.”
“See?” Lisa is nodding with earnest approval. “Real men eat cooch.”
“Is he good at it, though?” Fiona shoves a pillow in her lap like she’s got to cover her lady boner. “I feel like he’d be good at it. I can tell that about people.”
Sasha and I retake our seats at the dining room table, angling our chairs toward the living room so we have a view of the entire open-concept space. I feel someone’s gaze on me, and glance over to find Rebecca sitting a few seats away. When our eyes meet, she frowns and looks away.
“Can we bring the thirsty slut meter down a little?” Abigail huffs, her face red. “I don’t want to hear about Taylor’s fuckboy. We have business to discuss.”
“Like Abigail’s anointment,” Sasha whispers.
“Why even bother having an election, right?” I whisper back.
Sasha puts her fingers to her head and blows her brains out.
Our chapter president doesn’t start with the election, though, instead leading with a more pressing event. “Rayna, you want to bring us up to speed on the Spring Gala?” Charlotte turns the meeting over to Rayna, another senior.
“On Monday we’ll have tickets ready to pick up. This year we’re asking everyone to sell twenty. All the details about the Children’s Hospital charity we’re sponsoring are in your email, along with the dress code. Remind people when you sell them a ticket that formal attire is required. And I’m serious when I say black tie. Period. If the men don’t show up in a bow tie or a dazzling sequin gown, they aren’t getting in. Stephanie, I’m talking to you.”
Rayna cuts a glare at the sister barely concealing a guilty grin. Last year Steph’s date arrived dressed as Goth Rock Zombie Jesus. It did not go over well with the donor alumni.
“Can we do it in Boston this year?” Jules whines. “The banquet hall smelled funny and there wasn’t any parking. I bet I could get my dad to—”
“No,” Rayna snaps back. “The more we spend on a venue, the less money goes to charity. We’ll be in the Hastings banquet hall again, but this year we’re contracting with the church across the street to use their parking lot for overflow parking, and we’ll have valet onsite.”
“Everyone,” Charlotte chimes in, “is required to sign up for a volunteer committee for the Spring Gala. VIP planning, decorations, whatever. Rayna’s got the lists. If your name isn’t on one, I’m picking for you.”
Sasha pokes me in the ribs. She’d committed a hostile takeover of the music committee at the last meeting and conscripted me to her campaign. Mostly that involves us going through her Spotify playlists to find the right balance between danceable and inoffensive to our distinguished guests of a certain age. Last year Sasha kicked the DJ out twenty minutes into his set and ran the whole thing from her phone.
Needless to say, we’ve found it’s easier to let Sasha have her way.
After Charlotte dismisses the meeting, Abigail corners me on my way to the hall bathroom. She’s been to her bleach dealer, it seems. Her hair is now a shade of white that somehow absorbs all natural light and reflects only blinding bitch.
“You’re awfully smug these says,” she says, standing between me and the door to prevent me from peeing. I should pee on her fancy Louboutins just to prove a point about the repercussions of bathroom barriers.