Thanks to Drew Torres, a few filthy texts, and a semi-convincing lie ("omg i 4got we have a project 2 do 4 english class") she had Adam's number.
Thanks to the corner gas station manager having no morals and her "perky ass titties" she had a bottle of tequila she was pretty sure hadn't even been drugged.
And, thanks to her sister's boyfriend being in town for break and not giving a shit where he left fucking anything, she had a relatively untraceable number.
But worst of all, thanks to Adam, she couldn't stop thinking.
Which is what the booze was for--kicking thinking right in the ass. She was knee-deep in drunk, lately, cause mid-way through the bottle it didn't much matter if Adam's face was a little softer-looking than the other guys. And hell, she could even think "other guys" without flinching--she could believe it. Gracie was just... was... whatever. An echo, maybe. Lines, and rules, and labels, and all that shit? Who cared, really. Who really sat down and said that boobs made a girl and a dick made a guy. Cause some guys totally had boobs, and she'd seen some really ugly dicks.
She knows she'll think about it, when she drinks.
And she drinks anyway.
Bianca is on her stomach, on her bed, taking shots of tequila. This is not a good time to be within arms distance of two phones. Not when she is thinking about what Adam looks like naked.
Smooth. She thinks.
Maybe he doesn't shave. More manly. (She liked how he smelled, close, dancing. His hands were nice, too. She didn't think of girl's hands. What do girls hands feel like, anyway?)
The alcohol burns, and she doesn't chase it. Makes herself picture him--under the bandage.
Her eyes narrow. She drinks again.
Picks up a phone (who cares which).
I'm a be on the next level
I'm a be rockin' over that bass treble
- I've got my guns and horses;; for deadhandfan