Fortunately, Biff comes around quickly, still in a half-haze from the booze. “Hey, baby, you still here?” he asks, apparently unaware that I’m not Tiffany. To be fair, he’s mostly just seeing a lot of blonde hair and big boobs right now.
I nuzzle his neck. “Of course I am. You promised to show me a good time, remember?”
Biff chuckles. “Of course I did. Do you want to go again?”
“We never went the first time, remember?”
Biff’s forehead slowly wrinkles into a frown. “What…I didn’t fall asleep on you, did I?”
“Well…I was starting to think you didn’t find me attractive.” I pout, while climbing on top of Biff and straddling him like Claire did earlier.
Biff finally gets a clear look at my face. “Hey…you…you’re not…”
“Not pretty enough? Is that it? Is that why you can’t…you know?” I feign hurt.
“No!” Biff yells, struggling to sit up with me on his torso. I don’t weigh much, but I have very strong thighs from all that running, and my nervous system is functioning a lot better than Biff’s right now. “Of course not!”
“Then let’s just relax and have a good time,” I say, playfully patting his shoulder and nudging him back down. “It’s no big deal. My ex-boyfriend used to have that same problem.”
“I do not have a-“
“Wouldn’t take the little blue pills, either,” I continue, edging down toward his hips in what I hope is a tantalizing display of sexiness. In reality, I probably look like a hot mess. “Said they were for old guys, like that dude Anna Nicole married for his money.”
I pause, leaning over so my overexposed boobs are even more in Biff’s face than they were before. “You know I wouldn’t do that, right? Go after a guy for his money?”
Biff shakes his head as if that can clear the effects of the alcohol. Good luck with that. And now he’s looking at me like he sees a train coming to run him over. “Of course not.” That’s about as big a whopper as the one I told when Tiffany asked me if Lululemon pants made her ass look fat.
“Good, because I wouldn’t.” I lean over further and start a trail of kisses down his chest. Ick. Good thing neither Biff nor the camera can see my face. “Because I don’t care about your money, Biff, or your truck or your trust fund. I care about you.”
I stop the trail of kisses and sit up abruptly. “I think…I think you’re just the kind of guy I could finally fall in love with,” I say, very quietly. Then I lean over and go to kiss him on the mouth, hoping he’ll pull away.
Fortunately, he does. “I’m not big on talking,” he says, jerking his head to the right and kissing my cheek instead. “Why don’t you just show me?”
I giggle and scramble back down his midsection, dropping a kiss here or there only because I have to. But I can tell that dropping the L word had its desired effect. His body tensed up as soon as I said it. There’s no way that he’ll be getting it up now, right?
But, amazingly, he does. Okay, time to go to Plan B, and I don’t mean the morning-after pill. “Do you have something?” I ask Biff. If he doesn’t, Plan B can still continue – I have one stuffed uncomfortably between my boobs, way down in the bra where it isn’t visible.
“Like a condom? Oh yeah, never go anywhere without them.” He reaches for the bedside table, makes three tries at the handle, and then I lean over and get it for him. When I pull out the box of condoms, I realize he’s made this even easier for me.
“Um…sweetie, I don’t think this is going to work.” I frown at the condoms.
He frowns. “Why not? I use them all the time.”
“Honey…these are…”I trail off as I scoot back down and settle on his thighs, looking at something that could be a great ad for a get-skinny-fast pill. Then I look back at the condoms. “These say extra-large. And I read in Cosmo that when you use condoms that are too big, they’re much more likely to fail. And I don’t want to get knocked up, that would be just awful-“
“Are you saying extra-large won’t fit me?” Biff yells. “What I mean is,” he adds, hastily. “Maybe you need your eyes checked, hon. I’ve been using this size for years, and I’ve never had an accident.”
I screw up my face like I’m thinking. “You’ve never had an accident that you know about. And I bet a lot of your exes were on the pill, too. I know these are too big, because my ex used the large and he was a lot bigger than you.”
“Then why don’t you go have sex with him?” Biff yells, finally losing his temper for good. “This is what I get for slumming it with the working class – complaints about the best thing that ever happened to you. And don’t get any ideas about falling in love with me,” he adds, giving me a shove to nudge me off his legs. “I could never love someone like you. You should consider yourself lucky that I was even willing to give you the best sex of your life – at least until you ruined it with your whining, bitch.”
I bounce up off the bed, flinging the condoms at him. “Have fun using these alone, you bastard,” I yell. I grab the dress and pull it over my head, as Morgan emerges from the bathroom.“And just so you know, the rumor going around about you is that it’s the exact opposite, and I agree – you’re the worst lay ever!”
“I told you so,” Morgan says, deftly grabbing her phone from behind the tacky alligator-shaped lamp on the bedside table.
“What the fuck?” Biff stares at the two of us and struggles to get out of bed, hampered by the sheets and the amount of alcohol still in his system.
Morgan has the door open and I’m dashing out after her when he finally succeeds in jumping out of bed. “You come back here!” he yells. “You’re not getting away with this.”
Morgan and I are running at a light jog. It’s not like Biff’s going to run after us without at least putting on his underwear, right?
Actually, he never runs after us at all. We both stop and turn around at the sound of him puking on the floor. In Richard’s room.
“Maybe he’s finally finding himself revolting,” Morgan says, with a shrug.
“What are we going to tell Richard?” I ask, as she unlocks her car and we get in. From the open doorway, I see Biff finally straighten up, grab a bedsheet and stumble out the door.
Morgan turns on the engine and blinds him with the brights. Clutching the bedsheet around his waist, he stumbles up to the car window. “You won’t get away with this!” he yells, pounding a fist on the hood of the car.
Morgan unrolls the window half an inch with one hand and removes her Beretta from the glove box with the other. “You have two choices, Biff,” she says, calmly placing the gun in her lap. There’s no need to go all crazy waving a pistol around and attract attention – he knows it’s there, and keeping a gun in your car is far from illegal in this state.
Biff takes a step back. “I’ll sue you if you ever release that video.”
“You could do that,” I say, leaning around Morgan. “But in order to collect any damages, you’d have to prove that a lot of people saw it.”
“That won’t be hard,” Morgan says, helpfully. “Once we post the link on our social media sites, hundreds of people will watch in a few minutes. Then they’ll repost, and hundreds more will see it.”
“And then when you sue us, publicity from the court case will draw attention to the video even after it’s taken down, and thousands of people will read about the case to find out what was in the video they can no longer see,” I continue.
“What do you want?” Biff yells, pulling the sheet tighter around his midsection. “Money? You want money from me?”
“We want the return of your insurance policies – all of them,” Morgan says, her voice cold as ice. “We don’t want you to hold anything over any girl’s head again, do you understand?”
“Since we can’t trust you to hand over all the recordings, we’ll need your laptop and cell phone,” I say. “Also the passwords to all your email and online storage accounts.”
“We want to make sure you never do this
to anyone again,” Morgan adds. “You’ll get your laptop and cell phone back when we’re sure we’ve deleted anything that might embarrass anyone.”
“And then I get my recording back?” Biff asks.
“Then you have our word we’ll never release it,” Morgan says. She tosses a note written on motel-room stationery out the window. “That’s where you’ll meet us tomorrow afternoon with the items we discussed.”
“Should you fail to show up, or delete the items yourself, or damage the equipment in any way-“ I start.
“Or do anything to make us suspicious that you’re holding out on us,” Morgan adds.
“Or make a copy we don't know about it and use it in any way later, we'll be sure to release our video then,” I finish.
Morgan puts the car in reverse and steps on the gas, peeling out of the parking and leaving Biff standing there clad only in a vomit-stained bedsheet.
“What in the hell are we going to tell Richard about his room?” I ask as we drive away.
Chapter Thirteen
After last night’s escapade, Biff did turn in his laptop, cell phone, jump drives and passwords. He looked absolutely terrified stalking into the Tenbuck’s Coffee and handing us the jumbled box. We promised the safe return of his crap after we were satisfied. Right now I’m thinking it’ll take a week, since we have more pressing problems.
“You know Richard, you haven’t been keeping up your end of the bargain,” I tell him as he slides into the booth across from us. “You were supposed to be living extravagantly.”
He rolls his eyes. “You obviously didn’t see the charges for the hotel mini-bar on your credit card bills.”
“Believe it or not, eating a seven-dollar bag of M&M’s is not extravagant, it just seems that way to you,” Morgan says, studying her cell phone.
“And then there’s the room itself,” I add. “You need to move into a nicer hotel, Richard.”
“Or else we’re calling the bet in our favor,” Tiffany adds.
“Does this have something to do with whatever the hell happened to my room last night?” Richard asks, eyeing us suspiciously. From what I’ve seen of last night’s footage, he was the wet blanket at an epic party thrown by Matt and Charlie, since he’d stayed with them while we were using his room.
I shrug. “Let’s just say, even after we doused the carpet with bleach, you probably won’t like the smell.”
Richard’s eyebrows shoot up. “You didn’t seriously douse the carpet with bleach?”
Morgan twirls a strand of hair around her finger. “If we didn’t, we knew you’d whine about us leaving a mess for the poor, underpaid housekeepers.”
“We were just trying to be empathetic,” I finish for her.
“You know you probably permanently damaged the carpet and will have to pay for that?” Richard asks.
“Well, the damage happened in your room, and it would have been so much worse if we hadn’t bleached it.” I try to block out the five dollar mochas I see smiling at me from large signs on the coffee shop door. “Since you need to act richer or forfeit the bet, you might as well pay the bill for the carpeting.”
You're paying for the damages," Richard says.
"It's your room, " Morgan argues. "And we did it for the bet!"
"You're still responsible for the damage you caused," Richard says. "And you will pay it out of your cash stash."
"We can split it," I begrudgingly tell Morgan. "Maybe it isn't that bad. I mean, the carpet was pretty trashed to begin with."
"But you are moving into a nicer hotel room, and I've already picked one out," Morgan says, holding up her phone and waving it at Richard.
He heaves a sigh like she just asked him to carry her up Mount Everest without an oxygen tank. Or shoes. "Are you kidding? How did you even find a vacant room, let alone one in the most expensive hotel in town?"
"There's an app for that. And that is not the most expensive hotel in town. The four most expensive hotels in town were all full." Morgan pulls the phone away from Richard's scowling face and taps the "Book" icon. "I'm putting it on my card, which doesn't count against me because it's to force you to keep up your end, using our cards to live like a rich person."
"Not every rich person wastes money," Richard says. "I don't suppose any of you have ever read that book about everyday millionaires?"
"Yeah, yeah, we had to read it for Econ class," Matt grumbles. What he means is that he read a few pages of the Cliff's Notes. "But the bet agreement said you'd live like normal rich people, not the four percent of the four percent!"
"He's right," Tiffany says. "You won't get to experience what we go through if you don't try enjoying money for a few days."
"Yeah, I'm sure your life is so hard."
"If it's so easy, then you should have no problem living it for a while," I say.
"And if you don't move into this room today, you will forfeit the bet," Morgan says. "I've forwarded confirmation to your Dumb phone." That's what she calls those dinky phones that only make calls and send texts and do nothing else. Usually the only people I see with them are my grandparents' age, but of course Richard has one fifty years ahead of schedule.
He rolls his eyes. “I'll move in right after you settle with the hotel."
"You can't just stay in the room," Charlie says as we all scramble to pay our separate checks. "That won't give you a taste of how people treat you. You'll have to throw a party."
I dig my fingers between the booth cushions and fish out a dinner mint, a condom wrapper (eww!) and one grubby penny. "You're not seriously hoping to pay with that, are you?" Tiffany asks, her nose turning up so much she looks almost like she did before her nose job.
I roll my eyes this time. "No. I plan to pay with this." I dig into my jeans pocket and pull out a foil wrapper that, until yesterday, held a chocolate-peanut butter granola bar and shake out its contents.
Morgan's brows pull together in confusion. "Where'd you get all those coins?"
"Mostly digging around under vending machines," I explain. "Also, I walked through the drive-through of every fast food place within walking distance. Those places are a gold mine! Do you know how many fat junk food addicts are too lazy to get out of their damn cars to retrieve a quarter?"
Chapter Fourteen
It turns out that the rug is not ruined; as Morgan pointed out earlier, the carpet in that shitty room was already pretty stained. The desk clerk looked at the spot and thanked us for sparing her staff a big mess to clean up, after we “spilled a big bowl of soup accidentally”. She only charged us twenty dollars for airing out the room, just to get rid of the bleach smell.
One problem down, one more to go. We arrive at the Luxe Hotel, and Richard checks in, mumbling and shuffling his feet and gasping in horror when he sees the bill Morgan signs. Then he starts looking around the hotel as if expecting to be attacked by, I don’t know, rich people coming to steal his Toyota-driving soul. When the desk clerk asks if he’d like help with his bags, he practically yells, “No, thank you!”
Then Tiffany kicks him with a knock-off Prada shoe. “Is that how a gentleman of your stature is supposed to behave?” she hisses loudly.
Richard grits his teeth and turns back to the clerk. “On second though, ma’am, I think I could use a little help, if you don’t mind.”
He proceeds to tip the porter, a kid not much younger than us who fits the target market for zit cream, a hundred dollars. The guy thanks Richard profusely and says he’d be happy to help if Richard needs anything in the future.
No shit.
“Well, I give you points for thinking of the generous tip on your own,” Matt says, as the door closes behind the happiest porter in the world.
Richard smiles smugly. “I charged it to your credit card.”
Matt nods. “Yeah, well, sometimes you have to spend money to make money.”
“You really think this video thing is going to go viral?” Morgan asks.
“Maybe.” Matt shrugs. “If it doesn
’t, we can force pledges to watch the videos for hazing week.”
“Won’t they be too drunk to notice that Richard still isn’t acting like a rich person?” I ask.
“What do you mean?” Richard frowns at me. “I checked in. I gave a kid a hundred-dollar whopper of a tip. I paid someone to carry a couple suitcases I can easily lift myself. I’m staying in this ridiculous palace-“ He sweeps his arm around the room, which could only hold about four Hummer stretch limos, so he’s obviously seriously exaggerating here. “-even though my room at the other hotel was perfectly acceptable.”
I flop down on the couch, a modern, understated black model with the cushions so soft they seem to mold to my ass. “Rich people don’t call clerks ‘ma’am’, Richard.”
“Now hang on, you’re feeding into his delusions,” Morgan says, sitting down at the carved marble desk and pulling a nail file from her purse. “Not all rich people are assholes, and he’s still allowed to be polite.”
“I’m not saying he has to be an asshole or that he can’t be polite,” I explain. “What I meant was, rich people just don’t use the word ma’am to people who are not rich. They might be nice, they might say please and thank you, they might even compliment the porter on doing such a great job carrying those bags. But they don’t call poor people sir and ma’am. In fact, they don’t even do it much with other rich people, unless it’s someone of vastly higher status and/or a favor is needed.”
Morgan nods, the slight sawing motion across her fingertips slowing but not stopping. “I see what you mean. Yes, you’re right. I don’t remember my parents ever calling a porter ‘sir’, even though they were always very nice and tipped well.” She smirks. “Maybe not as well as Richard there, but well!”
“And they don’t look around the lobby of an expensive hotel like they think the walls are going to shake them down for more money,” I add. “Did you get a glimpse of yourself in any of the wall mirrors down there, Richie Rich? You looked like you were going to need CPR when you saw the bill! Rich people don’t act like that.”
Sorority Girls With Guns Page 8
