BEST BAD IDEA (Small Town Sexy Book 2)

by Morgan Young

  “No. I think we want to let the guy have fun as long as he’s not bothering anyone, and let the girl go back to falling in bushes. But maybe call her a ride so she gets home safely. Okay?”

  Carter grumbles something under his breath.

  “Do you want to go bother the frat guys drinking in the corner tent again?” Porter says. “That would be more fun, right?”

  “Fine,” Officer Oslo says. He turns back to me. “You can leave.”

  I pull the button-up off my head. “Thank you, Officer Oslo. You won’t regret this. I’m basically sober, I swear. Except I won’t drive. Except, thank you. And thank you, Porter. Thank you for being—hot. And for kind of kissing me back but not really because I know you’re on duty and stuff.”

  I’m babbling. What am I saying? I am still drunk. For sure. I step out of the police-cart.

  Officer Oslo scowls at me.

  “Stay out of the bushes,” Porter advises, grinning at me.

  “I’ll tell them you said hi.”

  Chapter Three

  “I literally lost the ability to speak. I’m not kidding, Cheyenne.”

  Cheyenne starts laughing uncontrollably. “So you basically got arrested into a golf cart, and then alternately rescued by the hot cop, but then you drunkenly blabbed at him and told him you’d say hello to some bushes?”

  “That’s pretty much it,” I say miserably.

  Cheyenne bends over, laughing. She holds onto the futon, and then rolls onto the floor.

  “You’re killing me. I mean, literally. I didn’t think these things happened in real life. I think this is the best story I’ve ever heard. Seriously.”

  “Well, I’m glad you enjoyed it so much," I say. "But it’s much suckier for those of us who have to relive it every waking moment.” I throw a decorative pillow at her on the floor, and miss.

  “Relax, sunshine. They bring in extra cops for the Oktoberfest to make sure drunk asses like yourself don’t get out of hand. We’re pretty much familiar with most of the townie cops, so there’s a 99% chance you’ll never see Mr. Oktober again.”

  “I mean, I wouldn’t mind seeing him from afar,” I say. “Or like, in a picture. Or in a wax museum.”

  “He’s gone. He was a rent-a-cop. Forget it.”

  I sigh. “At least no one was there to witness my eternal embarrassment.”

  Cheyenne raises her hand. “I solemnly swear I will never let you forget him.”

  “You’re such an asshole.”

  She looks at me seriously. “But I’m your asshole. Hey, do you want a beer?”

  I groan. “No way. Do you even realize how hungover I am right now?” Alcohol of any sort (even rubbing alcohol) sounds like the worst thing in the world. I spent most of the morning lying on the floor of our shared bathroom, and Cheyenne had to step over me twice to pee and even showered with me still laying there, on the floor, groaning and trying not to vomit.

  She hops over the top of the futon, like we didn’t spend most of the day before drinking, and disappears into the kitchen behind us. Our apartment is huge, but not very well laid out. We live over her ex-husband’s repair shop. They’re still on good terms, though—it’s like, this hugely complicated thing where they got married at seventeen to escape a bad situation, and of course it didn’t work out, but they stayed really good friends. She works for him as a receptionist and actually owns like half of his business, so she gets to live up here for free. Which means I get the cheapest possible rent, because small-town librarians aren’t exactly raking in the dough or anything.

  It’s sort of great, living with my best friend in our big industrial apartment. She’s 24 and divorced; I’m 24 and barely dating, ever. But at least we aren’t lonely, and we’re not settling, and most of the time it feels like we’re living kind of large, like maybe we could be a sitcom or at least a bad reality show on late-night TV.

  “Do you want to know why we’re best friends?” Cheyenne asks suddenly, returning to the futon with a heavy thump that makes me nauseous all over again.

  “Why?” I ask cautiously.

  “Because you hid under some stranger’s plaid shirt in a golf cart. And all patrons of Oktoberfest saw was some random drunk person wearing a shirt on their head. That was you. And that’s totally something I would do.”

  She dissolves in laugher again.

  “Hey Cheyenne?” I ask.

  “Zoey?”

  “Can I ask you something serious for once?”

  She stops laughing for a second. “Yeah. I mean, sure. If you want to.”

  I hesitate for a second. “Can you... I mean... can you shut the fuck up and bring me some Cheetos please?”

  Cheyenne giggles. “Anything for my best bitch.”

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