I groan. "I know this is the backwards south and all, but I don't understand girls who think guys should pay for everything in 2014."
"Thank you!" Matt flashes me what I guess he thinks is a flirtacious grin. "Do you want to get some drinks later?"
"No, I still find you repulsive. It just isn't because you don't want to buy me a drink." I turn my attention back to Richard, who's smiling like a cat with a yellow feather hanging out of his mouth. "Hey, don't look too happy. It's not over until we all fold, you know."
"I didn't say anything." Richard picks up his menu and moves the smirk behind enemy lines. "Jesus Christ! $2.99 for a cafe mocha? And it's only buy one, get one half off? At those ripoff prices, they could at least do buy one, get one free."
"That's really not bad," Charlie says, scrutinizing the menu. He nudges Tiffany. "Want some coffee? I'll buy you one."
Tiffany wrinkles her nose at him like he just suggested she stop shaving her legs and wearing deodorant. "Oh, that's big of you. You're happy to buy me coffee when you're getting it half-off. So that's all I'm worth to you? A dollar-fifty?"
"Of course not!" Charlie sighs. "Tiffany, how much money I'm willing to spend on you has nothing to do with what you're worth to me. Don't you get that?"
She shrugs. “I get that if you really cared about me, you wouldn't care how much money it took to make me happy."
"Oh, not this again." Matt groans and rubs his temple. "Anyone got an aspirin? This argument always gives me a headache."
"Okay, fine. How much do you care about me?" Charlie demands.
Tiffany looks at him like she looks at a pledge asking to borrow her best Louboutins. "What are you talking about?"
Charlie shrugs and leans back in his booth, arms crossed over his chest. "Well, you haven't offered to buy me anything. Tell you what, why don't I buy our lunches and you buy me dinner at a restaurant of my choice." I think he threw in that last part because he wants her to pay for an expensive dinner at a five-star restaurant.
Tiffany flings down her menu. “Are you kidding me? You want me to buy you dinner when you won’t even buy me a full-priced cup of coffee?”
Charlie’s usually a pretty even-tempered guy, but it looks to me like Tiff is finally getting the best of him. He’s one of those people who get very quiet when you make them really mad, and he is very quiet right now. Without saying a word, he closes his menu and places it on the table next to his sloppy silverware bundle. Then he folds his arms across his chest, leans back in his chair and stares down Tiffany, who’s sitting across from him.
“Let’s get something straight,” he says, his voice low but loud enough to get the attention of everyone at the table. “You just said that if I cared about you, I wouldn’t care how much money it took to make you happy. The other day you said that if I cared about you I’d pay more for your dinner than mine. You obviously believe that there is a direct correlation between how much money I spend on you and how much I care about you.
“So, the same must be true of you, right? If you really care about me, you won’t care how much money you have to spend to make me happy, and you should be happy to pay for whatever dinner I want. It should work both ways, right?”
Every now and then, the big brain has a good idea for Charlie!
Tiffany sighs. “But we’re going to be here a whole week on $500! Do you know how expensive everything is? I had to pay almost ten bucks for a bottle of tanning lotion! And this afternoon I had a mai-tai that cost almost five. Then I had an ice cream bar that was almost as much!”
Charlie rolls his eyes. “You know, I’ve been doing some reading about budgeting and couponing. Remember that report Shade did for our Econ class last year?”
That was an extra-credit thing I had to do to climb my way back up to a C in that miserable class. Someone actually remembered that? And it was Charlie?
Tiffany stares at him blankly.
“Well, I paid attention, and I remembered some of that stuff about couponing,” Charlie says. “And as soon as we got here and I realized how expensive stuff is, I started visiting those sites on my phone and downloading coupons. You probably could have gotten a dozen box of ice cream bars at a local store for a dollar or two with coupons, instead of spending five bucks on one bar.”
Tiffany looks at me. “Is that what you’ve been doing?”
I was wondering how long it would take the rest of them to arrive at the brilliant idea I had before we even got here. “Paying with coupons is only embarrassing the first ten or twenty times you do it. And it does save you money.” I hold up my phone and press a button. “See that bar code? I got that for joining The Tiki Hut’s mailing list! Half off whatever I order.”
“And you’re still only getting the salad,” Matt grumbles.
“Dude, she’s giving you good advice,” Charlie says. “Use your phone and sign up for their mailing list, too.”
Tiffany’s pink-glitter-lacquered nails are already hammering away at her phone. “Okay, I’ll buy you dinner. But if I’m paying, I’m going to pick the restaurant.”
“Fine. But I’m ordering whatever I want.” Charlie picks up his menu. “Order whatever you want here.”
“Well…I guess that’s fair,” Tiffany says, picking up her menu with a confused look on her face. She’s trying to figure out what Charlie’s game is.
Meanwhile, something is bothering me about this conversation, but I don’t know what it is. Something Tiffany said? No, that doesn’t seem right. Something Charlie said? No….
I’ll figure it out later. Right now I need to figure out a few of the finer points of my plan for Biff – assuming Tiffany helps us. “If you have a minute later, Morgan and I need your help with something,” I tell Tiffany. “Don't worry, it won't cost you a dime.”
“Okay!” She shuts her menu and looks at both of us. “I have an appointment with the afternoon sun right after lunch, but how about if I meet you for coffee afterward?”
Morgan and I nod. “No problem,” I say. “We'll, ah, split the cost of your Ice-a-cino.”
Tiffany flashes us a toothpaste-commercial smile. “As long as it doesn't cost me money, I'm always happy to help my friends!”
I hope so, for the sake of my vlog and Morgan’s reputation.
Chapter Eleven
“So what are we doing to Biff?” Tiffany asks, the minute she slides into a seat across from us at the Tenbuck’s Coffee across from our hotel.
I take a sip of ice water, the only free item on the menu at Tenbuck’s. “We have an idea how we can get him back for being such a bastard.” We filled Tiffany in on the situation over lunch.
“I’m all for getting back at him.” Tiffany folds her arms over her chest and slumps back in her chair. “But does your plan include getting back the video?”
“Let’s just say that when we’re through, he’ll be happy to hand them over voluntarily,” Morgan says with a shrug.
I lean over the table and say, in a loud whisper, “We’re going to make our own sex tape.”
Tiffany recoils, her eyebrows jerking together until they look like a caterpillar crawling over her forehead. “Oh, hell no. I though you wanted to get rid of the current sex tape, not make another! You two are just as sick as Biff!“
"Wait! We don't mean a real one!" I hiss as she starts to get up. "Please just hear us out. You said you'd help your friends, and all we want to do is teach this rich bitch of a frat boy a lesson."
" And it's not a real sex tape?"
I relax a little. Apparently , I really am the talented actress no one believes I am. "Not a real one, no. And not embarrassing to you. In fact, we can make sure no one sees your face."
Tiffany plays with the zipper pull on her hoodie. “Okay. What do you want to do?”
“We want to make what looks like a sex tape to hold over Ball-Bearing-Balls’ head,” Morgan says.
“Why do you need me?” Tiffany asks.
“Because I told him off royally today,” Morgan says. “He’l
l be suspicious if I suddenly want to sleep with him again, don’t you think?”
“And I was there when she told him off,” I add. “But you weren't. We're going to be in the tape too, but we need you to lure him back to the motel.”
“I see.” Tiffany smooths her hair. “So how do we make a no-sex sex tape?”
“He’ll do most of the work for you.” I gesture out the window, where a bonfire indicates an early start to cocktail hour. “Once he gets very, very trashed, you start flirting with him. It won’t take much. Tell him your room is closer and lead him back there-“
“To Richard's room, of course,” Morgan says. “We made him get a single instead of sharing since he's supposed to be living like a rich person. I asked if we could borrow his bigger room for our plan to deal with you, money free, and he agreed..”
“We’ll be hanging out in the bathroom, ready to take video on both our phones,” I continue. “But feel free to use yours as well for an additional copy.”
“Get him drunker,” Morgan says, scanning the room to make sure no one is close enough to overhear. “Pop the cork on a bottle of wine or something. I’m sure we can find something cheap. Pretend to be drinking a lot yourself, but don’t.”
“When he’s close to passing out, you’ll climb on top, start raining kisses down his neck or some other take-it-slow stall tactic,” I say. “Then you’ll start rocking back and forth, like you’re actually doing it.”
“I doubt this will happen, but what if he actually manages to get it up?” Tiffany asks.
“Fair question.” I shrug. “Just continue to tease him. Tell him you want to show him some special technique you learned, one time at band camp or whatever, then down another shot. How much you wanna bet he’ll do the same?”
“And then what do we do?”
Morgan and I exchange mischievous grins. “Then the fun really starts,” I say.
Chapter Twelve
Biff is every bit the drunken fool we left this morning (which seems like decades ago, it was so fucking early). Tiffany and Biff are stumbling through the doorway, weaving like Lindsey Lohan fresh out of rehab.
I’m relieved that my time in the tiny bathroom with Morgan is almost over. I have never heard anyone talk so much about AP classes and how hard it is to finish at the head of every class she’s in. Seriously, if she’s the head of every class, who the fuck else would want to hear about it?
Tiffany is playing her part remarkably well, considering how little rehearsal she had. She’s sloshing cheap champagne (and when I say cheap, I mean, like, mouthwash in a glass bottle) into plastic cups so generously provided by the Roach Motel. As she slips into giggly-and-goofy mode, she pulls off her t-shirt and falls onto Biff, who’s sprawled on his back like a beached whale. Or Chris Christie.
“You want another glass?” Claire knocks back her mouthwash/champagne, taking care to slosh most of it onto her face – or Biff. “Oh, let me clean that up.” She leans over and starts licking at Biff’s shirt. I wonder if she knows about all the toxic chemicals used in dry cleaning these days. Then I realize Biff probably hasn't gotten around to having that shirt cleaned in weeks. I'm not sure which is worse.
“Another glass? Only if you spill it on me like that!” Biff crows.
“I’ll see what I can do.” She sits up, arches her back and tosses her head, dirty blonde hair cascading to cover the side of her face pointed towards us and the camera. “Wait til you see what else I have in store for you.”
As Biff groans appreciatively, I gesture for Morgan to hand me the video camera, which she’ll take over when it’s time for my role. It’s on a mini-tripod I borrowed from Matt (I told him I wanted to take pictures of hot, shirtless guys at the beach, which wasn’t a lie except for the “hot” part). As quietly as possible, I perch the tripod on the counter and gently swing the camera until I have the best possible angle on the one-inch door crack. Fortunately, Morgan’s cell phone, Tiffany’s phone and about four GluedToYou buttons are both conveniently hidden inside the room, covering opposing wide angles so they sweep almost all of the room. We're uploading to the site but not streaming live, so we have the video but hopefully no one will ever see it.
I line up the shot so we mostly see Tiffany’s profile, and as we discussed earlier, she makes sure her hair is covering most of her face. The shot cuts off at what looks like her naked lower back (her hair is long enough to cover her tiny tube top bra), but because Biff is leaning back on a pile of pillows, his face is totally visible in all its moon-like glory. Oh, wait, maybe I’m confused with his ass. I can tell from the glazed look in his eye that he's just about to nod off. Tiffany waits, and then she strikes.
“It’s okay,” she says, loudly. She’s straddling Biff just above his hips, bending over so her hair tickles his face.
“It’s…what? What’s okay?” Biff stammers, confused, his eyes open now but still glazed like a dozen donuts. Doesn’t take much when this guy is sober, let alone sloshed.
Tiffany flaps a green-speckled hand in the air. “It’s no big deal. It happens to every guy. Let’s just forget about it and have some more champagne, okay?”
“Hu – what?” Biff struggles to sit up, something he has a lot of trouble doing with Claire sitting on him. He’s trying to see past Claire to the source of his un-standing ovation, but she’s not budging. I knew Biff's sexual prowess – or lack of it – was the weak link we needed to attack!
“Let’s try something else,” she says. She’s sitting upright, pantomiming riding a mechanical bull. Biff, in his current state, gets a little transfixed with watching her writhe. She bends over, raining kisses down his stomach, and stops abruptly around the belly-button.
“Ooohh, don’t stop baby,” Biff mumbles, his eyes closed.
“Just a second…I’m looking for it…oh, there it is.” I’m really sorry that we don’t have a close-up of her face for that one.
Biff’s eyes pop open. “What is that supposed to mean?”
“Nothing. It’s just dark in here.” Claire bends over again, exhaling loudly in the direction of whatever she had a hard time finding. She told us earlier that she was absolutely not having sex (including oral) with Biff, and we agreed. No way I’d want to lick a lollipop after it had been licked by probably hundreds of other girls. Then dropped on the floor. In a whorehouse. Nope, my mouth wouldn’t get within a million miles of his limp spaghetti noodle.
Tiffany makes a few more noisy exhalations as her head bobs over Biff’s unimpressive nether regions, making a few slurping noises. The camera angle gets the bobbing head, of course, but stops short of showing anything that would earn an NC-17. In reality, all she's doing is blowing air on Biff's much smaller brain, and the slurping noises are just for show. Biff isn't really thinking clearly enough to notice, as we predicted.
“Keep going,” Biff moans, unaware that a small electric fan could do the same job for him with a lot fewer problems.
She straightens, looking down at him. “I don’t think you’re that into it right now. Let’s take a break, huh? Are you hungry?” She hops off Biff and reaches for a bathrobe.
Biff sits up, panicked, and pulls down the sheet to look at his…lack of a reaction. And no, we didn’t spike his drink with anything to make that happen. Actually, we just got lucky - the combination of booze and performance anxiety (Tiff might have talked up her exes earlier) did that for us. Assuring him that it “happens to every guy” and having to “hunt” for it were the final kill shots for his libido. We were planning to focus on his one little problem, but Biff's own insecurities gave us a second.
And yes, we got the look on his face in full 1080p HD.
Tiffany says something about going for snacks and more drinks, waves at Biff and waltzes out the door in her bathrobe. Now here’s the tricky part: What if Biff decides he needs to use the bathroom? What if he wants to come in here and work on his apparently very small brain?
The only option would be to hide in the bathtub. I suspect that if we bo
th appeared to be passed out, Biff wouldn’t give a second thought to why two women were in his bathroom. That sort of shit happens all the time at the sorority house, and in frat houses on campus. You find a naked person of the opposite sex passed out in your bathtub, you close the shower curtain and go shower at the gym.
Biff sits and stares at the General (which is what I think we should call it since it makes all his decisions for him, apparently).Finally, he mumbles something to himself about how “that girl wasn’t very attractive”, lies back on the pillows and reaches for the champagne glass.
We wait until he appears to be asleep, which doesn’t take long at all. When he’s snoring louder than the engine on his obnoxious truck, I slowly open the bathroom door, pushing up on the hinges to reduce creaking (I told you this is a crappy motel). Then I shimmy out of my dress (a Badgley Mischka LBD that has served me well over the years, since the bet prevented me from buying new clothes for the trip) and carefully hang it over the back of a chair. (From the look of the carpet, it hasn’t been cleaned since Baby Bush was in office.)
I slide into bed beside Biff, my boobs feeling absolutely ridiculous in a Victoria’s Secret push-up bra I borrowed from Morgan. In my opinion, putting double-D’s in a push-up bra is like parking a Bugati on the deck of a yacht – it’s overkill and detracts from both pieces. But Morgan insisted it would look better in the video, and I thought she might be right – we wanted to highlight not only Biff’s poor performance, but his interest in tacky women as well.
Biff reeks of alcohol and too much Polo cologne, and the snoring isn’t making him any more attractive. Still, I have a job to do if I want to embarrass him and win the bet.
I snuggle up to Biff, trying not to wrinkle my nose in disgust. The camera is getting some of my profile, although most of it is obscured by blonde hair. I start raining kisses on his neck, shoulders and chest, thinking how much I’m going to enjoy washing my mouth out with Listerine when this mess is over.
Sorority Girls With Guns Page 7
