Bad Things (Tristan & Danika, #1)(25)

Bev joined me in the kitchen when she got home from work. She came bearing gifts in the form of bottles of apple juice, apple schnapps, and vodka.

I nabbed one bottle, inspecting it. “Apple juice, huh?” I asked.

“Indeed,” she said with a grin, washing her hands. “Appletinis.”

One of the best things about girls’ night was that no one even considered dressing up. We all wore sweats or yoga pants. I had my favorite pair of pink sweat short-shorts on that read ‘sassy pants’ on the butt, and a red half-shirt that read UNL because the V had worn out.

Bev took less than five minutes to change into her own pair of sweats—a sight you only saw on girls’ night.

“Jerry just called,” Bev told me as she came back into the kitchen. “He and the boys are catching a movie. They won’t be home until bedtime.”

The doorbell rang, and Bev answered it with a ready cocktail in hand, all of the dogs following closely on her heels.

It was Lucy. Lucy always showed up early. She sort of ran this thing, though she’d been reluctant at first. Our girls’ night had, over time, turned into a weekly group therapy session. Lucy had argued at first that it might not be the best idea to have therapy sessions with her friends, but, when she’d seen how much we all apparently needed it, she’d become more enthusiastic than any of us about the whole thing.

We’d even affectionately named the event. ‘Fuck Anonymous’, because it was anything but anonymous, had been going strong for over a year now, and I wouldn’t change a thing about it.

Lucy and Bev embraced, kissing cheeks, and Bev handed off the cocktail.

Lucy studied the bright green liquid in the martini glass. “This is either tasty, or wicked,” she murmured. She was a petite black-haired woman in her early forties. She had a pretty face, with dark eyes that always seemed to be crinkled up with laughter.

“It’s a little bit of both, I think,” Bev said.

Lucy came into the kitchen, where I was laying out the food, paper plate buffet style.

I set down the plate in my hand to give her a big hug.

“How are you, dear?” she asked as she pulled back. “You look great.”

I glanced down at my sloppy ensemble, wondering if she could be joking. “Um, thanks. I’m doing good.”

Bev went back to bartending from the small bar in the dining room, pouring and then bringing me my own bright martini.

I thanked her, taking a tiny sip. My brows shot up. “That’s tasty.”

Bev went back to the bar, pouring herself a glass. She held it up. “Cheers ladies. Fuck anonymous!”

“Fuck anonymous!” I said, raising my glass.

“Fuck anonymous!” Lucy called, smiling.

I took a long drink, then went back to stocking the buffet.

The doorbell rang. Bev answered it with another green martini in hand.

It was the neighbor, Sarah. She was a short, plump, white-haired woman in her sixties. She had a plate of her famous peanut butter cookies, as always.

Bev handed her the cocktail, and took the cookies.

They embraced, and Sarah took her usual spot on the sofa in the living room.

“Fuck anonymous,” she called out sweetly, before taking a big drink.

Jen, another neighbor, arrived next. Jen was a blonde, Barbie doll housewife with a great personality and a beauty pageant smile. She was the only one of us that never resorted to wearing sweats, even for girls’ night. She wore an emerald green sheath with mint green stilettos.

“I matched the drink of the week. What are the odds?” We all laughed.

She’d brought a huge box of chocolates, and we added it to the paper plate buffet.

“Fuck anonymous,” Sarah said quietly, taking a drink.

Harriet and Sandra arrived together.

Harriet was an attorney, like Bev, though her firm was smaller. She was thirty-nine, and she had dark hair and nondescript features. No one would know at first glance that she was a closet sexpot.

Sandra was Harriet’s neighbor. She was a small brown-haired, brown-eyed woman with a somewhat austere demeanor. She was an assistant at the art gallery at the Cavendish resort. It went without saying that after two drinks she’d start going on about how hot her boss, the hotel’s owner, was. I’d seen pictures of the twenty something billionaire playboy, and I couldn’t really blame her.

Olga showed next. She was a retired gymnast/acrobat with a heavy German accent. She was older, with a bit of overdone plastic surgery that made it hard to tell her age. She could drink the lot of us under the table.

Candy was the last to make an appearance. At thirty-four, she was the closest of the group to my own age, though there was still a thirteen-year gap between us. She worked in a burlesque show on the strip, and was a dead ringer for Betty Page, hairstyle and all.

“Hello Hookers,” she called loudly as she took her martini glass from Bev, giving her an air kiss. Her hair and makeup were fully done, but she was wearing Betty Boop PJ’s, and kitty slippers. “I’d like to start tonight, if no one objects. I need to vent.”

“No objections here,” Lucy said, looking around.

I moved into the living room, Dot and Pupcake following me again. They always followed Bev around for a while right when she first got home from work, but some or all of them eventually made their way back to me.