“No way! Double cray. Are they hot?”
“Totes. But really young. Just wee little baybays.”
“Oooooh, you could do the Mrs. Robinson thing. That’d be hot.”
“That’s not one of my fantasies, actually. But, trust me, I’ve got plenty of others.”
“Oh, I know you do. LOL,” Hannah writes.
“Thanks again, girl. You’re a great friend.”
“Takes one to know one. Speaking of which, say hi to Sarah. How’s she feeling?”
“She’s great. Breaking news: she’s in luuuuuurve.”
“Awesome! With that guy she went to Belize with?”
“Yup. And he’s in luuuuuuuurve with her, too.”
“Aw.” Hanna attaches a heart emoji. “I’m jelly.” She attaches a green-faced emoji.
“Me, too.” I exhale wistfully. “Okay, gotta go,” I write. “Just woke up. Gotta get some food in this sad-sack body.”
“By all means. Partying requires fuel. Have fun.”
“Thanks again for the assist.”
“No worries. Have an extra drink for me. Or two or three.”
“Thanks, Hannah Banana Montana Milliken.”
“LOL. Any time, Kitty Kat.”
“Meow.”
“Mwah.”
Phew. Catastrophe averted. At least for now. I have no doubt Hannah will style me—the woman’s damn good at PR—and that ought to buy me at least a little time. But, clearly, I can’t stay out here in Las Vegas forever. Sooner or later, the jig’s gonna be up. I just wish I knew how long OperationOcean’s Elevenwas going to last (and what my part in it might be).
I scour the rest of my emails. Nothing important. I move on to my texts.
There’s a text from Sarah. “Hey, Kitty Kat. What happened with you and Josh last night? Did you have fun? Winky winky boom boom? Jonas and I are heading out to Henderson to meet Oksana the Pimpstress right now. Kerzoinks! I just pissed my pants a little bit writing that. Okay, well, just wanted to check in and say hi and get all the juicy deets about last night. You’re probably sleeping, knowing you. Hope you didn’t barf, girl. But if you did, I hope you didn’t barf on Josh. But if you did, I hope Josh held your hair for you, since I wasn’t there to do it like usual. See you later when we get back. IF WE GET BACK.” She attaches a scared-face emoji. “If I don’t come back, just know I loved you with all my heart and soul. Oh, and, just in case, I hereby bequeath you my One Direction albums.”
I tap out my reply. “Hey, girl. Just woke up. Yes, I barfed. Yes, Josh held my hair. He showered me and Gatoraded me, too, and then put me to bed.” I attach a blushing emoji. “Don’t say ‘IF we get back.’ NOT FUNNY. I love you, too, with all my heart and soul, and then some. It’s probably too late for you to get this now, but be super-duper careful with the pimpstress. Don’t leave Jonas’ side. See you when you get back. Can’t wait to hear all about it.” I attach an ear emoji. “And I don’t want your stinkin’ 1D albums, you tweener. If I did, though, does this mean you’re ‘bequeathing me’ (WTF??) your entire laptop? Sorry to look a gift horse in the mouth, but I’m not sure I know how to extract the digital files off your laptop. Heehee. Love you, girl. Meow. Xoxo.”
My next text is from Josh from an hour ago. “You up yet, PG?”
I type a reply. “Hi, PB. Just woke up.”
His reply is instantaneous. “You feeling like death warmed over?”
“No, I feel pretty fab. Can you talk?”
My phone rings. “Hey,” his smooth voice says. I hear slot machines ringing and people cheering in the background.
“Thanks for putting me to bed and taking such good care of me. Sorry I barfed on your fancy shoes.”
“I hated those shoes anyway. Total douchebag-shoes.”
