She’s referring to the bachelor party. My bachelor party.
Casually, Drew explains, Like a dog’s chew toy. He holds up his hand, opening and closing it. Squeak, squeak, squeak, squeeeeeak. At least she did when we were seventeen, but I don’t think that’s a condition she’d outgrow.How do you know that? Alexandra asks, expectedly grossed out. When did you have sex with Alyson Bradford?
Drew looks to the ceiling, recalling the event. Um . . . junior year. It was in the dark days following our loss to St. Bartholomew’s in the playoffs. I wouldn’t say she was my rock bottom, but she was close.Lexi turns away. Eck . . . forget it, I don’t want to know.If it’s one thing The Bitch can’t stomach, it’s detailed stories of her brother’s sex-capades.
Which is precisely why Drew says, She also does this nasty thing with her tongue . . .Alexandra clasps her eyes shut. All right! You know what? Fine—if you want to go that badly, then go. If you want to leave me in my hour of need . . .
She never should have given him an out.
Drew smiles brightly, puts his glass on the tray of a passing waiter, and kisses her cheek. You’re the best sister ever. Bye. Then he asks me, Are you coming or what?A while later, Drew tells me he and Jack are going to go party with the Dutch world travelers. Are you coming? he asks. Drop some anchor, do a little deep-sea muff diving?
I scan the dance floor, trying to catch a glimpse of electric blue. Nah, I’m working on something here. I watch Jack by the door, entertaining the five girls, and ask, Which one are you going for?The girl in the middle seems like quite the eager beaver. He chuckles at his own joke.
Called it. I snort and Drew asks why. You don’t think it’s unusual that out of five Scandinavians, you’re shooting for the lone brunette in the bunch?Drew gets my point. But he blows it off. Thanks, Sigmund. If I want to be psychoanalyzed, I’ll throw good money away on an actual f**king therapist.