The Diary of Lexi Ashford, Part One

  “What do you mean by that?” Carrie Lynn pops a bubble. “Because it feels like you mean something.”

  Emersyn grins wickedly, but doesn’t say anything.

  Shaking her head, Carrie Lynn faces me. “Do you know Emersyn? If you don’t, you really should. I think you two will get along great. You have the same odd sense of humor.”

  I glance at Emersyn, dressed in black jeans, boots, and a plaid shirt, no glitter or sparkles in sight. “I could maybe see that happening.”

  Emersyn skims me over with doubt. “I don’t know. That’s some awfully sparkly eyeshadow you’re wearing.”

  I instinctively touch the corner of my eye. “Hey, it’s black.”

  “It looks like it’s shimmering,” she says with insinuation.

  “It’s just the sunlight,” I lie. The color is called shimmering midnight, but she doesn’t need to know that. “And what about you?”

  She looks taken aback. “I don’t have anything glittery, shimmering, sparkling, or twinkling on me. I know that for a fact.”

  I give a pressing glance at her clunky boots.

  When she tracks my gaze, her eyes narrow. “Dammit, Carrie Lynn, why do you have to put glitter on everything?”

  “I didn’t mean to put it on your shoes,” Carrie Lynn protests. “It must’ve leaked out of one of the suitcases.”

  Emersyn, Evan, and I stare at a trail of glitter that goes from the bumper to the inside of the SUV where the suitcases are piled. Then Evan reaches in and lifts up a bright pink bag with hearts on it. Glitter leaks from the bottom and floats to the floor.

  “Darn it, the bin must’ve leaked,” Carrie Lynn says as she sends a text. “I’ll be right back. Stacey’s having a shoe crisis. Too many shoes, not enough bags.”

  Once she’s in the house, I turn to Emersyn and Evan. “Anyone else worried about the bin of glitter she’s bringing?”

  “Not as worried as I am about this schedule she has planned.” Emersyn pulls a repulsed face at the glitter. “And how the glitter fits in it.” She lets her head fall back and stares at the sky. “God, I hope we aren’t doing arts and crafts.”

  “Me, neither,” I agree. “Unless I’m high. I get really creative when I’m high.”

  Emersyn’s lips tug into a tiny smile. “You do that a lot?

  I give a half shrug. “Nah. Not too much. Just whenever I hang out with Miss F.”

  Her brows drip. “Who’s Miss F?”

  “My cranky, old neighbor.” I sigh, feeling homesick for Miss F. and our crazy running-errands-when-you’re-high adventures. “But, anyway, I’ll tell you what. If arts and crafts ends up coming up, I’ll fake food poisoning, and you can pretend you have to run me to the hospital.”

  She considers my offer, and then a grin breaks out across her face. “Sounds like a deal. Now, if you could solve the wine-coolers-only problem, we should be golden.”

  Grinning, I do my best mafia-come-a-little-closer gesture and show her the bottle of tequila in my bag.

  “Mad props, city girl.” She snatches the bottle from my bag, throws back a swig, and then offers the bottle to me.

  I take a tiny sip, but don’t go too crazy. It is only ten o’clock in the morning, after all—I need to wait until at least lunch time—and we have a long drive ahead of us. I need to pace myself, not get too crazy too fast. Otherwise, I’ll turn into reckless Lexi, and she causes even more chaos than sober Lexi.

  Yep, I definitely need to take it easy. The last thing I want to do is end up in Vegas, drunk off my ass. Knowing my luck, I’ll end up in some cheesy Elvis wedding chapel, wearing a weird kitty cat get-up, marrying a guy named Bologna who wears a collection of Smurf doll head necklaces around his neck and sports an athletic cup all the time because, as he says, “To protect his nuts from squirrels! They’re sneaky, little bastards! They’ll get you when you least expect it!”

  True story. Not about the marriage part, but about the guy named Bologna.

  I met him during a strange night when I somehow ended up drunk in the park, wearing a cardboard box and talking to a tree about my life problems.

  “I have to pee,” Emersyn announces. “I guess I better go now, since the first scheduled bathroom stop isn’t for another three hours.” Grumbling under her breath, she hikes up the driveway toward the house.

  “So, how’s Veronica Mars doing?” Evan asks as he lightly chucks the pink bag back into the trunk.

  “She’s doing great.” I hold my finger and thumb an inch apart. “I’m this close to figuring you out. I even found your photo in the yearbook. You were pretty photogenic, if I do say so myself.”

  “That’s funny because I’m pretty sure I was purposefully absent every year during picture day.” He folds his lean arm across his chest and stares me down, doing that freaky, unblinking thing again. “And I wasn’t photogenic at all. Never have been.”

  “Yeah, right. Have you seen yourself?” I pause, realizing what I said aloud, and then quickly add, “Okay, okay. I looked in one yearbook and couldn’t find a photo of you. I thought I’d go out on a limb, though, because I didn’t think you’d be MIA in all of them.”

  “Well, I was, and for a very good reason.” He chews on his bottom lip, looking lost in deep thought, and it just might be the sexiest thing I’ve ever seen. Then he shakes his head, as if clearing his thoughts, and slams the back of the vehicle shut. “Keep tryin’, Lex. I’m sure you’ll figure it out eventually, or maybe you can just ask my brother since the two of you seem so close.”

  “We aren’t close.” Although, if I had my way, we’d be dirty texting each other already.

  “Really? That’s weird since I spent all last night listening to him talk about how much he likes you and how he really wants to ask you out, but he’s too worried you’ll say no.”

  “Really?”

  “Yep, right after we painted each other’s toenails and braided each other’s hair.” He shakes his head before heading to the side of the SUV.

  “Not all girls do that!” I yell after him, but he merely chuckles and slips into the driver’s seat.

  Grr. Damn him. Why won’t he just tell me? It’s so frustrating, yet at the same time, I find his desire to torture me very sexy.

  “What’s got your panties in a bunch?” Emersyn stops by my side, giving me a quizzical look. “You look sexually frustrated, like you’re about to dry hump the car.” She steps back. “Should I give you two a minute or what?”

  I tear my gaze off the SUV. “Your brother’s got me frustrated. I can’t figure out who he is. It’s driving me bananas.”

  She crosses her arms and cocks a brow. “You still haven’t figured that out?”

  “He told you about that, huh?” I ask and she nods. I grimace. “I feel bad about it, but it’s not like I was Miss Popular in high school. I probably wouldn’t recognize a lot of people.” Lie. I’ve remembered everyone I’ve run into so far, but I’m not about to admit that and make myself look more like an ass.

  “Yeah, I remember, kangaroo shirt girl.” The hardness in her expression softens as I cringe. “Okay, I’m going to do you a favor as one ex-dork to another. When you’re trying to remember Evan, picture him as your mother’s worst nightmare. He was so Emo back then. I’m serious, like, really mopey, and he used to lock himself in his bedroom and spend hours writing depressing poetry.” She rolls her eyes. “He had really badly dyed black hair, wore eyeliner, spiky collars, bracelets, chains, and had a ton of piercings.”

  It clicks. Well, sort of.

  “I know the guy you’re talking about, but that guy’s name wasn’t Evan.” And I know I’m thinking of the right person because there was a total of one Emo kid in Fairville. “His name was Silver.”

  “Yeah, Silver is Evan’s middle name. But he went by it in high school because he thought it fit his”—she makes air quotes— “ ‘tortured, misunderstood soul.’ ”

  I process what she just told me. Silver—or Evan—and I used to talk a lot during chemistry class. O
r, well, I did a lot of talking while he worked on our assignment and nodded his head a lot. I was never quite sure if he was listening or if he just had some weird, constant muscle spasm in his neck.

  “All right, ladies, who’s ready to party like it’s 1999!” Carrie Lynn cheers as she and her four friends walk out of the house. They’re wearing the same pants as Carrie Lynn, only the butts of theirs say ‘Bridesmaid Bitches Posse.’ And they’re all sporting tiaras. “You girls remember Lexi Ashford, right?” Carrie Lynn says to them when the five of them reach me. “She went to school with us. She’s the one who wore that shirt with a horse on it all the time.”

  There’s a chorus of “Oh, yeah,” and one snide, “Oh, you mean the girl who had really short arms. Didn’t we make up a nickname for her, like Lexi T-Rexi or something?” The wind’s blowing, and she’s clutching on to her tiara like her life depends on it. I make a mental note to steal her tiara when I get a chance and make her watch me break it in half before I throw it off a roof.

  Emersyn gives me a sympathetic look before hopping into the passenger seat of the car.

  As the four of them pile into the back and middle seat of the SUV, Carrie plops a tiara down on my head. When I start to protest, she holds up her hand. “Everyone at the party has to wear one, Lexi, so be a trooper.”

  “But Emersyn isn’t wearing one.” I sulk with my arms folded.

  “That’s because she’s allergic to cubic zirconium,” Carrie Lynn says, dead serious.

  Sure she is. Dammit! Why couldn’t I come up with an excuse like that?

  Emersyn catches my eye through the window and puts her finger to her lips, begging me not to say anything.

  Carrie Lynn puts her foot on the sidestep, hoists herself into the middle seat, and then pats the spot beside her. “Now, come on. I promise you that, by the end of the car ride, you’ll be wearing that tiara proudly.”

  Yeah, there’s a better chance of the sky raining tiny cupids onto my head then that ever happening. But I force a smile, knowing there’s no use going on this road trip being a Debbie downer, even if I’m being forced to wear a plastic princess crown that, for some reason, smells like cotton candy.

  Chapter 10

  Man, I never thought the drive to Vegas could be so long.

  For the first couple of hours, Carrie Lynn and her friends are super energized and giggly. Then, about an hour away from the city, they hit this phase where their energy level goes way down. When they begin reminiscing about their weddings, I discover all four of them are married, and three of them have kids. Emersyn and Evan are the only ones not towing around a ball and chain, but Emersyn is four years younger than me, so she doesn’t count.

  Then they start drilling me with questions, asking if I’m married, and when I say I’m not, they gape at me like I sprouted a unicorn horn out of my forehead. Can you say awkward?

  I feel like a loser for being so far behind in life, and it makes me want to change even more. I silently vow to myself that, from tomorrow on, I’m going to be Miss Responsible, Pay Her Bills Before They’re Due, Check Her Bank Account Frequently, Figure Out Who the Hell I Want to Be. Start moving forward. Get a real job and work super hard. Save some money. Establish a career. Buy my own furniture. Get out of Fairville. Live in a better part of the city. Hell, maybe if I’m lucky, in a year or two, I’ll be throwing my own bachelorette party and making everyone do arts and crafts.

  The second we pull into the city, their energy soars through the roof again.

  “Look at that man wearing a diaper.” Carrie Lynn points out the window, her eyes wide as she gapes in sheer awe at the vibrant, lively, sinfully strange city.

  I giggle at the sight of the man handing out flyers while rocking a silver painted diaper and diamond feather wings. Hey, look at that. The sky must have heard me when I said there was a better chance of it raining tiny cupids onto my head than me ever proudly wearing a tiara.

  Okay, so technically the sky probably didn’t rain him down, but still, it’s cloudy, and he had to come from somewhere. Maybe that’s why I’m perfectly okay with the tiara on my head. Either that or the fact that Emersyn and I kept sneaking tequila shots during the drive. And by shots, I mean I’ve been chugging my sorrows away from a big, old cup.

  Poor Evan had to endure the ride sober. He did it so quietly, just nodding his head along whenever someone yammered his ear off.

  Watching him, I begin to wonder how I didn’t see it, how I didn’t recognize him as Silver, the sweet Emo kid who helped me pass chemistry.

  About twenty minutes after pulling into the city, we park in the hotel parking garage. Carrie Lynn and her friends immediately head inside without bothering to help with the luggage, saying they’re going to get checked in/play the tables/find a sexy piece of man candy with a tight ass—it was really hard to sort through all the stuff they were shouting as they stumbled toward the doors.

  Emersyn stays behind with us, seizing the opportunity to light up a cigarette and have “sexy, skanky phone time with her boy toy back home!” Thankfully, she wanders away from the car while making the call, because I’m pretty sure I caught, “tweak your nipples” and “tongue fuck your belly button” before she got out of ear range.

  “I figured it out,” I announce to Evan as I help him collect everyone’s bags from the back of the SUV.

  He arches a brow in disbelief as he starts to stack the suitcases onto the ground. “Is that so?”

  I circle a finger in the air and almost topple over as the world spins with the movement. “You think I’m gonna try to lie to you again, but I’m not.” I brace my hand against the bumper to keep from tipping over.

  He leans in to grab a bag. “Oh, yeah, I forgot. That tiara gives you mystery solving, super brain power.” Mocking rings through his tone.

  “I never said mystery solving, super brain power,” I argue, my speech starting to slur. “I said it gave me mystery solving, awesome brain power.” I exaggeratedly snap my fingers. “Come on, Silver; get it right.”

  He twists to face me, and for the briefest second, his lips are parted in shock. But he swiftly collects himself and puts on his I’m-too-cool-to-give-a-shit expression.

  He then shrugs, focusing on the suitcases again. “Congrats on solving the mystery. Me, I’d like to forget about it.”

  Confusion mixed with dizziness makes it complicated to concentrate. “Forget what? That I figured out who you are?”

  “Forget about Silver altogether.” He drops the last of the bags down onto the ground.

  “You want me to forget about him? That’s so sad.” I pout. “He was sweet and such a great listener.”

  “He was also socially awkward, a loser, oh, and my personal favorite, a devil worshipping freak.” Evan glowers at the suitcases as if somehow they’ve offended him.

  “You were not. You were sweet and quiet and cute in this strange, intense, I-rarely-blink way, which FYI, you still do that.” I’m attempting to convince him, but when he gives me this you’re-cuckoo look, I sigh. “Okay, so maybe that’s what everyone called you back in high school, but trust me, if I believed everything the cool kids told me in school, I’d still think I have t-Rex arms. But I don’t.” I stick out my arms and wiggle them around like I’m an octopus. “See? Perfectly normal length, my friend.”

  That gets him to smile, and for some reason, it makes me feel like I’ve won some grand prize. Gold medal for Lexi! Hell, yeah!

  “So, how about this?” I continue. “Instead of spending the night living in the shadows of our past, how about we go pro-nerd and celebrate our dorkiness?” I stick out my fist for a fist bump.

  “I’m not dorky anymore,” he says, but fist bumps me anyway.

  “No, you’re not.” I mull an idea over, checking him out as I thrum my finger against my bottom lip. “You look too sexy right now. It kind of contradicts dork celebration night.”

  He wrestles back a smile. “Why do I have a feeling you’re about to do something really weird?”
br />   “Because I am. Be worried, my soon-to-be-dorky friend. Be very, very worried.” I make a dun, dun, dun sound, tapping my fingers together like I’m about to do something sinister.

  He smashes his lips together, struggling not to laugh at me.

  I ponder how to make Sexy Stranger look less hot, and for some reason, the man dressed up as cupid pops into my mind.

  “I have an idea.” Without warning, I reach forward and tug his shirt over his head.

  “What the hell, Lex?” Evan’s face turns bright red, either from anger or embarrassment.

  I don’t know why he’s embarrassed. The guy is ripped—not overly muscular or anything, just toned and lean and nicely yummy. He has tattoos, too—curvy patterns that ink down his side and disappear underneath the waistband of his jeans. I have issues with turning into a nympho when I’m drunk, and it takes all of my willpower not to unbutton his jeans and pull them off, too.

  Although, maybe I could get away with licking his abs …

  I laugh at myself.

  Evan suddenly folds his arms across his chest. “For future reference, a guy never feels too great about himself when a woman takes off his shirt and then laughs at him.”

  I blink my attention to his face. “I wasn’t laughing at you. I was laughing at what I want to do to you.” It takes my drunken mind a second or two to sort through what I said. “But, anyway, that”—I twirl my finger around in front of his chest—“doesn’t make you dorky. If anything, I think your hotness when up a notch.” I give him a thumbs up.

  A beat or two of silence goes by as he intently studies me, looking baffled as fuck.

  “Are you always like this?” he finally asks, more curious than mystified.

  “Like what?” I bend down and unzip the pink bag in front of my feet.

  “Say whatever pops into your head, because I gotta say, it’s unnerving.”

  I rummage through the bag for a get-up that will erase Evan’s sexiness. “You get used to it. And if not …” I grin, grabbing the bin of glitter and some body lotion.