Dirty Rowdy Thing (Wild Seasons, #2)(5)

“Harlowwwww!” My name is shouted across the large living room and quickly I’m surrounded by four arms. Two are Lola’s, and two belong to London, Lola’s new roommate and the most adorable all-American girl you can imagine: sandy blond hair, freckles, dimples and a constant smile. She cools it down perfectly with her hot nerd girl glasses and wild clothes. Tonight, for example, I see she’s wearing a blue Tardis T-shirt, a polka-dot green and yellow skirt, and black-and-white–striped kneesocks. With Lola’s retro black dress and sleek Bettie Page thing going on, they make the rest of us look tragically unhip.

“Hi Lola-London,” I say, pressing my face into Lola’s neck. I needed this.

Lola’s voice is muffled against my hair. “That sounds like a stripper name.”

London laughs, extracting herself from the tangle. “Or the name of a drink?”

“One Lola-London on the rocks,” I say.

“Well,” London says, pointing to the cooler on the kitchen floor. “We can try inventing it tonight. I swear I bought everything. Mixers and booze and beer and nuts and—” She closes her eyes, raises her right hand in a rocker salute, and belts out, “Fritos!”

She turns running off to answer the door and I give Lola my nod of approval. “I like that girl.”

“Someone told me there is a fiesta in this casa!”

I turn to the sound of Ansel’s deep, accented voice, and every sound in the apartment dips for a beat before applause and laughter break out. He’s wearing a sombrero filled with tortilla chips. Because he’s an adorable idiot.

Mia breaks away from him, making a beeline to me, and wraps her arms around my shoulders.

“You okay?”

I called Lola and Mia earlier, gave them both the truncated update, and they know me well enough to anticipate the magnitude of my panic.

I blink away from the delightful spectacle of Ansel doing some weird little bullfighter dance. “Eh.

You know.”

She pulls back and studies my face before deciding, accurately, that I’m here for distraction and not to discuss my mom. We all turn to watch Ansel as he offers sombrero chips to someone. Seriously, his inner child is definitely alive and kicking.

I draw a circle in the air around my head. “What is with the—”

“No idea.” Mia cuts me off. “He and Finn went out for beers earlier and back he comes with it. He hasn’t taken it off in hours, but has refilled it three times. Stand back ladies”—she bends, digging a beer out of the cooler—“he’s all mine.”

And at the mention of his name, I catch sight of Finn across the room. He must have come in with them. My stomach does an annoying clench-warm-flip move when he laughs over something Ansel says and lifts his arm to adjust his baseball hat. His bicep flexes and my stomach ignites. I chug half my beer to make the feeling go away, imagining the hiss and steam as the metaphorical flames are put out.

“I didn’t know Finn was coming tonight.” But what was I thinking? That they would leave him at home alone? Finn is just one more complication my already frazzled brain can’t quite handle right now.

Mia twists the cap off her beer and watches me, a little smile in her eyes. “Is that okay?”

Civil. Band of misfit buddies, I remind myself. “You know it’s fine.”

“As long as it doesn’t try to speak, right?”

Laughing, I nod. “Right.”

Lola rubs my back and then tilts her head, indicating she’s going to join the people gathering to play cards. “You good here?”

“Yeah,” I tell her. “I’ll probably just hang back and watch you guys be awesome.”

After making sure I don’t need company, Mia follows her, and I’m left alone in the brightly lit kitchen, watching the small group around the dining table. Ansel licks his thumb and then begins dealing cards, tossing them expertly across the table to each player. I feel a little lost, like I shouldn’t be here but unable to go home, either. I’m too tight in my skin, too warm in this apartment.

A shadow dips past me and when I turn, I find a bleached-blond mohawked guy bending to pull a wine cooler out of the fridge.

“Interesting beverage choice,” I say. “Passion punch!”

He turns and laughs, nodding in total agreement. He’s gorgeous, if not a little dirty, but his smile showcases a mouthful of perfect, white teeth—a La Jolla hippie boy. Of course. “Have you ever had these? They taste like juice!”

The cheap wine cooler is a newfound, amusing novelty? Definitely a La Jolla hippie boy.

“I’m Harlow,” I say, extending my hand. “And if you want juice, why don’t you just drink juice?”

He shakes it. “There is very little trouble to be had in juice,” he says, before pointing the bottle at his chest and adding, “Not-Joe.”

“ ‘Nacho’?”

“No. Not. Joe. Oliver, my new boss? Calls me Joey. I think he’s f*cking with me, like a kangaroo thing because he’s Australian? But it isn’t my name.”

I wait for him to give me his real name—obviously he can’t have known Oliver long enough for him to be called Not-Joe more than a few months—but he doesn’t. “So you go by Not-Joe?”

“Yeah!”