Page 33 of Hard to Score

I’ve kissed plenty of girls. Ones I like. Ones who like me. Ones who just want to kiss Gary Bowman’s son so they can say they are that much closer to the future Hall of Famer.

So I’m game. What guy is going to turn down a chance to sample the goods to see who he wants to hook up with again during the rest of his vacation?

Not this guy.

Not on your fucking life.

Hank stands atop a wood stump beside the bonfire raging at our backs. “Drumroll, please,” he says as he digs his hand in a bucket to pull numbers from. “Number ten.”

“Right here!” Sassy Sarah steps forward with her hand raised and her tits bouncing. She’s known for that teeny-tiny bikini she loves to wear and for her dad giving us discounts when we buy snacks at the bait shop he owns down the pier.

No complaints there whatsoever.

“Number two,” Hank continues.

“Woohoo!” comes from the darkness as Delilah from Kennebunkport jogs forward. Her grandparents own the house next to our rental and, so far, the chick has been down for anything. I’m not sure if that scares the shit out of me or excites me.

Maybe both.

“Number three,” Hank shouts and cheers go up to the right of him.

“I was hoping I’d get picked,” Glenda says. The local guys here refer to her as the Good Witch behind her back, because she’s fast and easy and usually willing. “I need some variety.”

I have her pegged as all talk, but I’m a horny sixteen-year-old guy who’s sick of using his hand and the Internet for inspiration.

“And lastly,” Hank says as the three ladies sit cross-legged in the sand around the board, “number twelve.”

“She’s right here,” someone shouts in the back.

I strain to see through the darkness at the girl walking forward slowly.

And when I see her, I open my mouth to protest but don’t say a word.

It’s Brexton.

Fucking Brexton.

With those huge hazel eyes and that shy smile. With . . . all that going on. That meaning every part of her that every guy here tonight is currently looking at as she makes her way to the circle. We parted ways on our Christmas ski trip with her looking like a baby giraffe—gangly and clumsy—but she showed up here for our summer trip with curves and that red polka-dot bikini that she’s currently wearing.

It’s fine.

This is fine.

“Spin the fucker already,” Hank says as chants of spin it fill the air again.

“Yes. Sure.” I look across the cardboard the bottle’s on and smile at Sarah, Delilah, and Glenda. I can’t bring myself to look at Brex. Not now. Not like this.

She’s just a kid.

She’s just . . .

Hoots and hollers carry against the crash of the waves on the beach as I spin. The brown glass bottle goes around and around until it slows down and lands pointing directly at Brexton.

I stare at its neck but don’t meet her eyes, as everyone starts clapping and shouting.

I would have kissed any one of them by now. Sarah. Delilah. Glenda. I would have pressed my lips to theirs, and given myself something to remember for the spank bank later.

But Christ, this is Brexton, and . . .