“So, it’s decided. Saturday we’re going to Sheeves, so you need to get out a little black dress and get your dazzle on,” Layla informed me, grinning widely.
“But I’ve just moved into my new place so I was going to unpack some more boxes.”
This was an unnecessary reminder of my recent move into my new place, the first one I’d ever lived in that was just mine, seeing as how they’d all helped me do it two weekends ago. They’d also seen how bad my OCD could get when the guys had started putting boxes in whatever room they wanted to, totally ignoring the room marked on them. I hadn’t lost it when I’d discovered it, but it didn’t take a genius to see the immediate anxiety that had hit me when I had. Being the great people that they were, after that they’d made sure they all went in the right place. For a moment, old insecurities about it had hit me, but the Townsends had glossed over it like it wasn’t a big deal. Moving was hard for someone who liked everything in the right place, so them reacting like they had meant more to me than I could put into words.
And with that in mind, I decided not to be rude and say no. “Actually, you’re right – I need a night out with the girls. I’ve already unpacked my clothes and shoes,” and they were all organized perfectly in my walk-in, I didn’t add, “so let’s do it.”
I had two nights to unpack after work before it happened which meant I’d only have about five boxes of books left to unpack on Sunday. I’d deliberately left my books until last because it always took me a while to organize them. I was still undecided if I wanted to put them in the bookcases in alphabetical order based on the author or the title, or if I wanted them done by color. My bookcases were white and split into square boxes, so organizing them by color would look awesome. Then again, organizing them alphabetically was what I was used to for them, whereas color was what I used in my wardrobe… it was a tough choice.
While I’d been musing through this dilemma, the girls had apparently been making more plans, because I heard Maya say, “Get da man plan.”
“Nah,” Ebru snorted, waving her hand. “That’s lame. We’ll think up something better.”
If I’d known they were talking about me, I probably would have thrown myself down the steps in front of my office to get out of it. Instead, I figured they’d been talking about someone else or even Layla, so I laughed with the rest of them.
Stupid books!“Ok, ok,” Maya snickered, wobbling on her stool. “GYMP!”
Finishing off my drink, I lowered the glass back to the table with more force than I’d meant to. Damn Sex on the Beach cocktails were freaking fine!
“Who’s the gimp?” Layla slurred, reaching for the pitcher and frowning when she saw it was empty. In fact, all seven of them were empty. “Bar keep,” she called, waving her hand in the air and giggling when Ethan turned around and glared at her. “Yoo hoo, we need more of your wares.”
Rolling his eyes, he leaned over the bar to the guy who’d been making the drinks for us all night and said something as he gestured with his thumb at us. The guy – who was actually kind of hot – burst out laughing and nodded, before moving off to do something that hopefully involved more cocktails.
Slowly – or that could have been the alcohol giving the world a Matrix style vibe – Ethan turned back and walked over to where we were, coming to a stop right behind my stool.
“If you cause any damage to my property or get on the karaoke machine,” he aimed this at Tabby, the sheriff’s wife who had the most beautiful pink hair, “you’re banned.”
Ignoring the hot owner of the club, Ebru cupped her hands around her mouth and called out, “Yo, Joe!” Before stopping and bursting out laughing. “Holy shit, that rhymes.”
All of us started laughing with her - probably harder than the situation warranted, but, ya know, alcohol - and I realized how happy I was that I hadn’t thrown myself down the steps and caused an injury that would have prevented me from enjoying tonight.
Remembering what she wanted, Ebru called out asking for more cherries for our glasses and if we could have more shots, too. That’s how the mess had started when we’d first entered Sheeve’s. We’d looked at the cocktail menu, decided on shots but seeing as how we all wanted different ones we’d done them in waves. By that I mean, we’d all had choice number one, then the next round was the next person’s choice and so on. After that, we’d wobbled to a table, sat down, and stuck to our pitchers of Sex on the Beach.