I lift my bottle in a toast and pour more cool vodka down my throat. One shot, two shots . . . maybe more. Who knows at this point? All I know is that the bottle isn’t empty yet, and I’m still conscious.
When Banner slams her shot glass on her table, she crosses her arms in front of her and adopts a serious expression.
“So he broke your heart . . . but did he break your ass?”
Thank God I’ve finished swallowing because I would have spewed vodka all over this silky duvet and the screen of my phone.
“Jesus, B. Really?” I open my mouth to protest that he didn’t break anything, but she keeps going.
“It’s an important question. And I’m already getting drunk and it’s not even ten a.m., and therefore I deserve an answer. Are you still a back-door virgin?”
Glaring at her through the Skype connection, I flatten my lips before I burst into drunken giggles. “I can still feel the twinge in my ass, if you really want to know the truth.”
Banner’s eyes get huge. “No. Way. You did it! My little girl has finally grown up and taken a cock where no cock has ever gone before! This deserves to be tweeted. We must memorialize it on the interwebs.”
Grabbing up her iPad, she types furiously.
“Uh, no way in hell are you tweeting that. It’s my news.”
I know I’m making a huge mistake as soon as I reach for my phone and minimize the Skype app in favor of Twitter. And yet I don’t care. It’s probably the vodka fueling this poor decision making. And I mean probably as in definitely.
“I’m not saying anything about my ass, but the world should know that having a big cock just means the guy is an even bigger dick.”
Pulling up the infamous @GreerOneBadBitchKaras Twitter account that helped my ad go viral, I compose a masterpiece of a tweet. A Twitter-piece, I decide to call it.
I mumble to Banner as I tap out my 140 characters of awesomeness. Damn, vodka makes me just as creative as tequila.
Size doesn’t matter if it just means you’re an even bigger dickhead. #BigDick #KissMyAss #NeverAgain #GreerOut #NoCavDo #FuckUVeryMuch
Reading it out loud to Banner takes three tries because I can’t stop laughing. And if there are tears sneaking out of the corners of my eyes, they’re totally from the laughter. I refuse to admit anything else.
“Do it!”
I hit TWEET before I can second-guess myself or attempt more creative hashtags.
My notifications blow up within seconds. Whoa. Apparently, ever since I hooked up with Cav and the press started linking our names, my Twitter following has really grown.
I check out my profile, taking a second to give a nod of approval to the picture Banner chose when she helped me set it up. Followers: 1.2 million.
Uh-oh. A niggle of doubt creeps through the vodka-driven safety cocooning me. The retweets and likes climb in number.
“Uh, Banner. Did you know I have 1.2 million Twitter followers?”
Her eyes round hysterically. “Say what now?”
“One point two million,” I say, repeating the words very, very slowly.
“Holy shitballs. Cav’s going to get the message, that’s for damn sure.”
The lock turns, and the door to the bedroom flies open and slams against the wall. I spin around to face the door, leaving my phone propped up on the pillow.
Creighton, my dear brother, is wearing an expression that would not only frighten small children, but armies of small countries.
Oops.
He holds up a phone, its screen facing me. “What the fuck are you thinking? Cannon and my PR team follow this asinine account on Twitter, and in the last two minutes we’ve gotten four calls between us that you’ve decided to exercise poor judgment. So again, I ask, what the fuck are you thinking, Greer?”
Searching my liquor-soaked brain for any kind of explanation, I lift the bottle instead. “This is good vodka.”
Creighton’s expression turns even more thunderous. He reaches out and yanks the bottle from my hand. “Enough.”
From far away, I hear Banner’s voice.
“Whoa, big brother. Don’t get your boxers in a twist. Wait, do you wear boxers? Briefs? What about that sidekick of yours? His are always shoved straight up his tightly clenched ass cheeks. You might want to round up an underwear-retrieval operation for him. It’s probably damaging to his health, and most definitely damaging to his scrotum. Scrotum. What a weird word.”
I’m too drunk to cringe at my best friend’s priceless monologue. Instead, I grab my phone off the pillow and point to the screen. “She has a valid point.”
“Hang up now. Delete the tweet. No more booze.”
Turning the screen back to face me, I wave at Banner. “I think the party just ended. I’ll fill you in later.”
“Okay, hope your ass feels better. Maybe you need a medium-sized cock next time. You can’t give up on anal yet!”
This time, I do cringe. That’s something my brother never needed to hear.
“’Bye.” I wave again and tap the screen to disconnect before looking up at Creighton sheepishly. “Can you maybe pretend you didn’t hear that—”