“To Ginger,” Kitty says, and we clink small plastic cups before throwing back the cloying liquid.
“And to Dante,” Lola purrs when we all pick up the next shot, and I toss my shot back quickly and ignore the churning in my gut that might be from the alcohol or might be from the way she teases a finger up and down Ryder’s arm.
“To freedom,” Ryder says as we all pick up our last drinks, shooting me a wink as he lifts his to his lips.
“To freedom.” I take my shot, wincing at the burn. Turning to Kitty, I ask, “Where do you suggest twoyoung, hot, totally free people go to make some mischief right about now?”
Cocking a perfectly manicured eyebrow, Kitty’s lips tip up in a sinister grin.
“How would you like to see a topless burlesque show, Ginger?”
9
FACE DOWN, GHOST WHITE ASS UP
MABEL
Oh my god, turn it down.
My neighbors next door must be having early morning drum lessons or taking an in-home class on classic marching band music, because the thudding booms and bangs are fighting right through the soundproof walls of my condo and ricocheting through my brain.
My brain, which seems to be trying to donkey-kick its way out of my head based on the way it’s pounding in my skull.
I swear once I come to life, I’m selling this condo and moving to a cabin in the woods where there are no neighbors for miles. I’d rather take my chances with a serial killer than whatever the hell this is.
I try to lift my hand to knock on the wall and beg them to cut it out, but both of my arms are tucked directly under my chest, numb from lack of blood flow. When I open my mouth to yell, my tongue sticks to the roof of my mouth and I feel the corners of my lips crack. Oh god, dry. So dry. I need water, now. The second the thought crosses my mind, my gag reflex revolts at the idea of swallowing, and I heave into my pillow.
Except…
This pillowcase is cotton. It smells like generic detergent, and it’s smushed flat to the bed where my face is resting on it.
This is not my pillow. My pillow is memory foam and smells like lavender. My pillowcase is made of silk to keep my hair frizz-free and my skin fresh from oils. And the blanket lying on top of me isn’t mine, either. It’s scratchy and not nearly warm enough—or maybe it’s just that I’m buck naked underneath it, if the way my nipples are chafing against the low-thread count sheets is any indication. I crack my eye open, wincing at the sliver of light peeking through the heavy curtain, and I remember where I am.
I’m in Las Vegas, and that sound is not my neighbors having a breakfast rock and roll party. It’s the sound of tequila and bad decisions working its wayout of my system via the worst headache I’ve ever experienced in my life.
“Mabel Scout Quinn, open this door right now or so help me god, I will kick it down myself.”
Or maybe it’s the sound of my publicist coming to kill me.
Either way, death feels like a welcome friend at the moment.
The groan that escapes my lips as I lift my head off the pillow is completely involuntary and instigates an immediate coughing fit, thanks to the desert-dry state of my mouth. I try to push my hair out of my face, but my fingers get immediately tangled in a rat's nest hanging in front of my eyes. I try to detangle myself, but wind up pulling a whole mess of hair off my head and flinging it onto the floor.
Oh my god, I drank so much that my hair gave up on me.
Holy shit, am I bald now?
I pat my head, wincing at the contact but relieved when I feel hair still growing from my scalp. I squint towards the ground, and even though it’s still dark in here, I notice the pile of hair on the floor isn’t red, but blonde.
Right, the wigs. I passed out with that stupid blonde wig still on my head. I can still see, whichmeans I must have at least taken the contacts out at some point.
A win is a win, I guess.
“Mabel, I swear to Christ, if you don’t open this door right this instant!” Trina’s voice is accompanied by a trio of loud bangs, and my brain thuds in my skull.
Knowing that if I don’t open the door, Trina will gather the satanic strength only accessible by high-powered publicists and kick the door down without scuffing her six-inch red-bottom heels, I pull the blanket around my bare body and shuffle towards the opposite side of the room. Every step feels like running a marathon, and when I crack the door open, the light from the hotel hallway beaming my cornea nearly makes me fall backwards. Trina doesn’t say a word as she shoulders past me into the room, flipping light switches as she goes. I’m not surprised to see my mom following behind her—if Trina is here to scold my hungover ass first thing in the morning, I must have been photographed doing something dumb last night—but the sight of Ramona is a bit alarming. While Ramona and Robert have always been like a second pair of parents to me, they aren’t usually around when I’m being disciplined. But there she is, the tight, disappointed expression on her face matching Trina and my mother’s.
I keep my eyes trained to the floor as the door clicks shut behind me, both because I’m ashamed to look up and face the adults in the room, and because Trina has turned on every single light and I think I might vomit from sheer brightness alone. But between my hangover and the state of the carpet—my discarded dress left in a pile, the knotted wig, the empty champagne bottles and crumpled up piece of paper poking out of the top of my left shoe—I know I have massively fucked up.
